The Teacher in the Glen
by Anne O' the Island
Summary: What if Gilbert had disappeared after Convocation and married Christine? What if Christine had died, leaving behind a beautiful little Joy Blythe? And what if a certain auburn-haired teacher had moved to Glen St. Mary, meeting her old sweetheart's daughter and changing both father and daughter's lives forever?
1. Principal

It was a beautiful pearly morning, just after a storm. The Island looked "as though God had washed the world," as Anne Shirley often liked to say. On this particular morning, however, she was not admiring the iridescent clouds tinged just slightly with lemon at the edges, but in bed, fast asleep. Her auburn hair tumbled out across the pillow, having somehow come out of its braid during the night, and one leg stuck out from under the duvet. Anne Shirley was dead to the world.

Suddenly, her eyes snapped open and she sat up, looking around her. WIthout even casting a glance out the window to greet the morning as she usually did, she flung herself out of bed, pulling on her various articles of clothing and appearing downstairs in Green Gables' kitchen in near-record time. Marilla, it seemed, had not been infected with the same urgency Anne had, and barely looked up from the batch of biscuits she was cutting out.

"Good morning, Anne," she said, "today's the day, then?"

"Day?" Anne said rather wildly, "Day? What day?" She bit her left index nail, a nervous habit she had given up long ago, but came back to haunt her when she was under stress.

"If I didn't know better, Anne Shirley, I'd say you was nervous," Rachel Lynde offered from her end of the table, patently ignoring the glare Marilla shot her.

"But I _am_ nervous!" Anne buried her face in her hands. "I've never been this nervous before taking a teaching post!"

"It's your age catching up to you," Mrs. Lynde nodded sagely, "Twenty-seven years and not a husband in sight is terrible for the nerves. That and your red hair."

Under usual circumstances, Anne would have taken tremendous offense at being called both a spinster and red-haired in the same breath, but she barely stirred. "What's happening to me?" she nearly wailed, her grey eyes looking up at Marilla.

"Well, this posting's different," she said, cutting out another biscuit before sliding her pan into the oven. "You've never been a principal before."

"But you'll be a good one," Mrs. Lynde finally added her first helpful contribution to the conversation. "Glen St. Mary will be lucky to have you. Now eat up," she pushed a plate of oatmeal at her, "your train leaves at ten."

* * *

"Now, mind you remember how you were raised. Go to church regular."

"Remember your warm underthings when it gets cold."

"Don't forget to find reputable boarding house."

"Write as often as you can."

"Try to get a husband."

"Don't listen to her."

These were the admonishments and reminders, well-wishes and benedictions, that were given to Anne on the Green Gables veranda at eight-thirty. Anne had hugged both of the old ladies, and received a prim, ladylike little hug from Dora, who at sixteen had none of the impulsivity Anne had had at that age.

Davy, on the other hand, made up for it in spades. While not nearly as bad as he had been when Anne had gone to college, he was still far more demonstrative than his twin. He manfully tried to contain a sniffle, but wrapped Anne in a bear hug before leaving her at the station. The latter reached up to ruffle his hair.

"Don't worry, Davy-boy," she smiled, using her nickname for him, "I'll be back soon enough. It's not so far to the Glen, you know. I might even be able to visit a weekend or two."

The conductor began his walk down the side of the train, slamming the doors shut. "All aboard! Train departing Avonlea for Charlottetown, making stops in Riverdale, Braeside, New Glasgow, Glen St. Mary, Dalvay, and Brackley. All aboard!"

Anne gave Davy one last hug. "I'll see you soon, Davy. Mind you don't get into too many scrapes, now." With that, she stepped onto the train, leaving a forlorn-looking boy behind on the platform.

* * *

Back at Green Gables, Marilla and Rachel sat on the veranda, waiting for Davy to return from the station. To pass the time, and also to keep their minds off of Anne's leaving them again, they reminisced. To be more precise: Marilla reminisced. Rachel gossipped.

"It's a shame, is what it is, that Anne didn't marry that Gilbert Blythe." Rachel Lynde sipped her tea. Almost ten years later, she still could not understand how Providence had kept apart those two whom it had so obviously joined together.

"Whatever happened to John Blythe's son?" Marilla asked. If anyone knew, it had to be Rachel.

" _You_ would think of him that way, wouldn't you? I do seem to recall that John Blythe was sweet on you at one point. And it was mutual, if you ask me," Rachel threaded her needle to begin piecing a new quilt. Marilla's poor eyesight kept her from doing such detailed work, and her endeavors were mainly knitting-related now.

Rachel gave a sigh, remembering the rarely-repeated story of Marilla Cuthbert and John Blythe. "And then you quarreled, no one remembers why anymore. You always did have a temper, Marilla Cuthbert. John Blythe left the Island and came back two years later with a wife."

"That's enough, Rachel," interjected Marilla. "I was asking about the son, not the father."

"Oh, well that's easy enough to tell you. Gilbert went to medical school right after Redmond," Rachel settled in for her account, "really threw himself into his studies. He did so well that he graduated early, in two years instead of three. He married a society girl, Christine something-or-other, but she died when they had a child. Those fancy girls never did have strong constitutions, I always did say. But Gilbert never remarried, and moved his practice out of the city. He's apparently devoted to his daughter-and if she's anything like him, she'll be a right handful. He should remarry, really. I wonder…"

Marilla started another row on her afghan. "And where did you say he was living?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? He lives in the Glen."

* * *

Anne watched the countryside slowly roll by as her train wound its way through it, towards Glen St. Mary. She remembered the excitement she had felt-could it already have been sixteen years ago? when the train had taken her to Avonlea. She had barely been able to sit still, nearly driving poor Mrs. Spencer to distraction. Then, when Matthew picked her up, she had barely been able to contain her awe at the beauty of her surroundings.

" _Pretty? Oh, PRETTY doesn't seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful, either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful-wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here," she put one hand on her breast "it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?"*_

 _Good days_ , she thought, looking at her reflection in the window, remembering Katie in the mirror, her imaginary friend when she had lived with various families. Now, Katie had tiny lines in the corners of her eyes- _and a far better wardrobe,_ Anne thought with no small amount of satisfaction.

The conductor made his way down the aisle, announcing the next stop. "Glen St. Mary. All passengers for Glen St. Mary, get off at the next station!" His voice got fainter as he crossed into the next car, his bellows of "Glen St. Mary!" being replaced with the sounds of the train.

Anne gathered up her bags and stood, preparing to leave the train and greet whatever lay ahead.

 _Well, Katie,_ she thought, _here's to our next great adventure_.

* * *

* From _Anne of Green Gables_. Anne's reaction to the Avenue. Sorry, not the Avenue-the White Way of Delight.


	2. Bundle of Joy

Doctor Gilbert Blythe took one last look into his waiting room. It was unlikely that there would be another patient at this hour, but it would be unfortunate to leave a patient locked in his surgery all night. It had never happened to him before, but he had heard a few horror stories in medical school. The most memorable of these involved a patient who had self-medicated with a decanter of brandy, gotten a bit chilly, and warmed himself by a fire built out of the contents of the filing cabinets.

Of course, it was probably a legend...but legends were usually founded in fact, so it was better not to take any chances.

"Doctor Blythe," a tall, middle-aged man stood up, putting out his hand.

"Mr. Harris," Gil shook his hand, "what can I do for you? More cough medicine?" Mr. Harris' daughter, Millie, had come down with whooping cough two weeks previously, and still needed something to keep down the cough.

"No, not right now, Doctor. I came up to ask if you would do the School Board a favor."

"If it's within my power…"

Mr. Harris nodded. "Are you free tomorrow afternoon? We have the new principal coming on the two o'clock train, and she needs to be picked up and taken to the teacherage. Normally, I'd do it myself, but the apples won't harvest themselves."

"I'll do it," Gil agreed. "What's her name?"

"Miss...er...something. I don't remember her name at the moment, but you can't miss her-she has red hair."

Gilbert blinked once. Red hair...but it couldn't be. Surely there were hundreds of redheaded teachers in Canada. "All right. Tomorrow at two. I'll close up early and meet her."

"You're a good man, Doctor," Mr. Harris turned to leave. "And before I go, I think I'll take some of that cough medicine."

* * *

As he watched Mr. Harris go down the lane with his bottle of medicine, Gilbert let his thoughts go to Avonlea, to a time before Joy, before Christine, before Redmond. It was an inconsequential little memory, a snapshot in time. Two forms, bent over books, piles of notes and scribbles all around them. Slowly, the image sharpened, bringing a pale face with its mass of red hair into focus. The girl to whom these featured belonged kept chewing the end of her braid, turning it into a sodden tangle.

Gilbert reached across the table to pull it away. "Anne, if you keep doing that, you'll chew your hair off."

Anne looked up, desperation showing on her face. "Why should I care? It's red! And it's not as if I'll ever be pretty anyways. Right now, my hair is serving the useful, _educational_ purpose of giving me something to vent my maths-related frustrations with!"

Gilbert wanted to laugh-or maybe cry. The most beautiful girl he knew was chewing her hair because she thought she wasn't pretty. Instead of making a remark he knew would earn him ridicule, he said, "Well, being smart is better than being pretty."

Her head snapped up. "Are you calling me ugly, _Mister_ Blythe?"

"No-o," he tried to extricate himself, "but too many girls here seem to think that intelligence is overrated."

"And they don't need any," she countered. "They will marry, have children, and run households. They don't have their sights set on the Avery, the way we do. Besides, with my looks and temper, Mrs. Lynde says that I'll either marry a widower or a heathen. Compared to those, being an old maid looks pretty good, Gil. So that's what I'll do, I think. I'll be an old maid schoolteacher. Imagine, being wed to one's work. There's some romance in that, don't you think?"

Back in the here and now, Gilbert shook his head at the memory and started down the road home. He had a little girl who needed him.

* * *

"Papa! Papa!" A little chestnut-curled, violet-eyed cherub shot out of the house to greet him when he stepped onto the porch. "Did you hear? We're going to have a new princ'ple!" She wrapped herself around his knees, effectively rooting him to the spot. At age six, Joyce Blythe was adorable, and took very much after her father.

"Yes, sweetheart, I heard. I'm supposed to go pick her up from the station tomorrow." Gilbert bent down to pry her off his legs. He swung her up, making her giggle. "How's my little girl?"

"I'm not little," she frowned. "I'm six."

"And a very grown-up young lady you are. You'll be starting school this year, you know." He sat down on the porch swing with her in his lap, making the two of them rock back and forth.

Joy snuggled into him. "Can I go meet the principal with you?"

"I can't think of a reason why not," he thought about it for a moment. "Wait-aren't you going to play with Mary Margaret tomorrow?"

"Oh." Joy frowned, then whispered a word that made Gil sit up, spluttering.

"What did you say?"

She said it again, a bit louder this time.

He leaned his head back, torn between shock and gales of laughter. "Joy, sweetheart," he finally managed to gasp, "where did you hear that word?"

"From Jeremy Lee." Jeremy was the hired hand next door, and his extraordinary ability to herd cows was only exceeded by his extraordinarily foul vocabulary. Frankly, thought Gilbert, it was a miracle it had taken this long for his daughter to pick some of it up.

"Joy," he looked her straight in the eye, "I want you to promise me that you will never, _ever_ repeat that word again."

"Why?"

"Because if you do, I will take you down to the surgery and disinfect your mouth with iodine."

This got him a solemn nod. "I won't."

"Good," he felt his heart rate slowly return to normal. "Now, how about we go inside and see what Susan's made for dinner."

* * *

Later that evening, after Gilbert had gone through the usual bath-and-bed routine, he settled into his chair next to Joy's bed for her bedtime story. "What story do you want to hear tonight?"

Sleepily, she turned to him. "I want a story about my mama. I don't remember her."

"What do you want to know, sweetheart?"

"Was she pretty?"

Gilbert smiled. "Very. She had very black hair and eyes like yours." With her raven hair and violet eyes, Christine Stuart had been the object of many affections at Redmond, and then in Toronto, where he met her again during medical school.

"Would she like it here?"

He had to laugh at that. "Truthfully? No. Your mama was more of a city type of girl."

Joy nodded. "Did she love me?"

Gil swallowed. "She never got to meet you, but I'm sure she would." He pressed a kiss to his daughter's forehead. "Good night, sweetheart. Sweet dreams."

"Good night, Papa."

He turned off the light, and left the room, only stopping once between his daughter's room and the front porch to get a sweater. He sat down on the swing again, looking up at the moon, wondering if he shouldn't have lied to Joy. Christine had been beautiful, yes, but she was also cold, just what he needed after having his heart broken by Anne. Christine had never wanted children, and Joy had been an...accident. When she found out about her, Christine had been livid, blaming him for all of it. In the end, her fragile body had been unable to endure the rigors of childbirth, and she died just as Joy entered the world.

Maybe it was all for the better, he thought, for a daughter to have stories, instead of a mother who would have always resented her. Gilbert stood up and went back inside. It got colder earlier this time of year, and he had to make an earlier start tomorrow.

* * *

At one-thirty the next day, Gilbert drove from his surgery to the train station to collect the new principal. Mr. Harris hadn't shown up again, so all Gil had to work with was "she has red hair." How helpful, he thought. She hadn't been told to expect him, so he would have to look for her on the platform.

He looked at the valley, beginning to turn to rust and gold this time of year, and remembering how Joy described it.

"Look, Papa! It's a second spring-every leaf is a flower now!"

There was only one other person he knew who had been able to describe things that way.

" _I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn't it?"*_

He smiled at the memory as he came to a stop in front of the Glen St. Mary train station. He saw the train pulling away, and knew that the new principal would be waiting on the busy platform.

After hitching his horse to a post, he made his way onto the platform, full of people, porters, baggage and freight. It was hard to make out anyone, but there-that was a flash of red hair.

No, that was Mrs. Aaaron Tremblay's fox stole-definitely _not_ the new principal.

Gilbert looked around, trying to spot someone- _anyone_ -who fit the description of the Glen school's new principal. After five minutes of a fruitless search, he sat down on a bench to wait for the crowd to clear. Maybe then he'd be able to find her.

* * *

Anne coughed as she stepped off the train and into a cloud of smoke from the locomotive. Pulling a shawl up over her hat and covering her mouth with it, she retreated to a relatively quiet corner to wait for whoever had been sent to pick her up.

Ten minutes...fifteen...twenty. No one. People still milled on the platform-didn't they have anywhere else to socialize? she asked herself. They made it difficult to find anyone else-although _they_ obviously weren't having any trouble doing so.

Anne was, however, blessed with an imagination that always longed for something to do. Sitting on her bench, she had an excellent view of everyone. She remembered the time she had spent in church "making people beautiful"; this seemed like a good time to bring that pastime back.

The woman there, in the green hat: she could wear her hair in a way that framed her face more, instead of pulled back severely that way-and green really wasn't at all suited to her coloring. Maybe a nice, dark red. Yes, thought Anne, red suited her much better.

And that man there, why, he'd be quite handsome-if only his nose were less droopy. Something more Roman would add a distinguished air to his face.

That woman in the purple ensemble and the fox fur stole...well, maybe she could replace the fox with a grey fur, bordering on silver. That would match her hair better, and put that poor, moth-eaten creature around her neck out of its misery.

By now, the platform had cleared, and she was the only person left. This reminded her eerily of the day Matthew had picked her up from the station. She had waited, and waited, thinking nobody would come for her. Anne looked around for a flowering cherry tree-nary a one. She stood, thinking she would stretch her legs and ask the station master to call her a cab. That was the difference between now and seventeen years ago: she had her own ways of getting home now.

* * *

Gilbert watched the crowds thin until only the woman in the blue traveling suit was left. He saw her stand and make her way towards the stationmaster's office. She had gotten off on the two o'clock train, hadn't she? Maybe she had seen the principal at one point.

He strode towards her. "Excuse me, ma'am?"

She turned towards him, pulling the shawl off her hat, revealing a head of bright red hair. "Yes?" A pair of grey eyes looked up at him, slowly growing wider in recognition. A small gasp escaped her lips. He thought he heard her whisper something, but his ears had ceased functioning when he had seen her face, and were now filled with a buzzing noise.

Gil stopped in his tracks, recognizing Glen St. Mary's new principal, a ghost from his past.

"Anne?"

* * *

 _*Anne of Green Gables_


	3. House of Dreams

**Well...that was a bit of a cliffhanger back there, wasn't it? Fortunately the plot bunny struck soon, and I didn't have to spend ages wondering what I was going to do with the two (three) of them.**

 **I've literally been having moments where I just want to know what happens next _so_ badly. And then I remember that I'm the one writing this thing. So for those of you who'd like to know how the story continues...on with the show!**

* * *

"Anne?"

"Gilbert Blythe?"

"How…?"

"When…?"

They stared at each other. Each in shock, trying to process that the singularly most important person in their lives was standing in front of them. How had fate arranged to make them meet again, so many years down the road? It was all they could do not to reunite like long-lost family.

Gilbert's internal monologue went something like this:

 _It's her. I can't believe it's her. Standing here, in front of me-my daughter's principal. And she doesn't hate me! I thought for sure-wait:_ Miss _Shirley. She didn't marry Gardner. She didn't marry Roy! Hallelujah!_

Anne's was built along the same lines of shock and delight, but going in a completely different direction: _I thought I'd never see him again. He left right after Convocation, and went to Toronto for medical school. How did he end up here? Why didn't I listen to Mrs. Lynde's gossip more? I might have at least been slightly prepared for this! Oh, Gil-I've missed you!_

Outwardly, however, they looked like little more than casual acquaintances.

"I...wasn't expecting you," Anne studied her old chum. Older, wiser, with an air of maturity that suited him-but also a vein of sorrow running through it all. "Not-not that I'm not pleased to see you, of course, but I can't help wondering how on Earth it is that you came to be here."

"A favor to Mr. Harris. His apple orchard needs harvesting, or he would have come and picked you up yourself." He seemed to remember where he was and why he was there. "Do you have any more bags, or is it just the one?" He gestured to the carpet bag at her feet. His ears were still ringing with shock.

"I have a trunk, too, although that can just be sent along, I think. It spares you the trouble of having to hoist it into a wagon." She stepped back, "Actually, I was about to make arrangements-"

Gilbert shook his head. "Don't bother. We'll take it with us." All the while, his head and heart were beating out the same message: _She's here! Anne's here! She's back!_

* * *

The mood in the buggy was tense. Neither occupant seemed to know quite what to say to the other. Conversation was restricted to platitudes of the sort uttered by casual acquaintances, or maybe distant relatives.

"You're looking well," Anne managed, "Quite robust. This," she waved her arm weakly, gesturing to their surroundings, "suits you."

"It does," Gilbert agreed. "I've found the country to be more to my liking than the city."

"How long were you in Toronto?" She asked. He had left immediately after Convocation, and that had been the last she had seen of him.

"Four years," he said, "then I came here to take over my uncle's practice. It helps that we have the same last name-I only had to repaint the D with a G on the sign."

Anne chuckled, relaxing in the familiar company, "I can see it already. 'Doctor G. Blythe'. I always knew you'd make a good doctor, Gil," she turned to him with a smile, "It was only a matter of time."

"What about you then?" The buggy lurched over a rut in the road, and Anne braced her feet against the floor. Unconsciously, Gilbert reached out to steady her, grabbing her hand.

She looked down at their intertwined hands, so familiar, yet so foreign. Realizing the direction of her gaze, Gilbert pulled back, pretending that he hadn't felt any jolt whatsoever when their hands had touched. "Where have you been keeping yourself these past few years?" He continued his previous question.

"Oh, around. I taught for three years at Summerside High after Redmond, and then spent the last three and a half at an asylum in Halifax. No not _that_ kind," she added at the look he sent her, "an orphan's asylum. I thought that, as an orphan myself, I might be better able to empathize with the children, help them on their journeys to becoming people. I'd like to think I did."

He smiled. "I'm sure you did. No one comes out of an encounter with Anne Shirley without being somehow changed for the better."

He was interrupted by Anne's gasp of delight when they crossed into the valley. "Oh, Gilbert! Gil, look!" She pointed at the brilliant colors of the trees. "It's as if the world was painted in gold and bronze." She leaned back comfortably, so as to better see her surroundings. "It always made me sad to think that this beautiful display meant that the trees were dying. It all seems so _cheerful_ for a funeral."

"They'll be back in the spring," he reminded her, enjoying a peek at the Anne of old. "And they're not really dying. It's more like...falling asleep."

"True," she conceded. "I admit I always found myself comforted by the idea of all the little plants and trees safely tucked away under a blanket of snow until spring."

They pulled up to a building Anne recognized as a school. It was a lovely, red brick building, with ivy climbing up the walls and a bell tower proudly perched on top, rather like a hat on a lady's head.

"Oh, it's lovely!" Anne hopped down from the buggy with no help, and ran to inspect it. "It's just as I imagined it to be!" she called back, disappearing around the corner.

Gilbert followed her, hearing her footsteps come to an abrupt halt.

"Oh! It's beautiful!"

Drawing even with her, he saw what she meant: the teacherage, a two story house that served as the accommodations for the principal. In front of him, Anne stood, hands pressed over her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks.

 _The first glimpse of her new home was a delight to eye and spirit-it looked so like a big, creamy seashell stranded on the harbor shore. The rows of tall Lombardy poplars down its lane stood out in stately, purple silhouette against the sky. Behind it, sheltering its garden from the too keen breath of sea winds, was a cloudy fir wood, in which the winds might make all kinds of weird and haunting music. Like all woods, it seemed to be holding and enfolding secrets in its recesses,-secrets whose charm is only to be won by entering in and patiently seeking. Outwardly, dark green arms keep them inviolate from curious or indifferent eyes.*_

Gilbert touched her shoulder. "Anne? Are you all right?"

She nodded, turning a tear-stained face towards him. "It's just...so beautiful! It's everything I've ever wanted in a house, Gilbert." She looked back at the house, a soft look creeping into her eyes. "This is it. This is my House of Dreams."

* * *

 _*Anne's House of Dreams_

 **I know, I know-I just packed Anne off to her House of Dreams, to live there-alone. May I be forgiven :)**

 **Let me know what you think, though. I have ideas, but I'm always open to input. For instance, when should Anne figure out that Gil's a widower...with a daughter? Next chapter? The one after that?**

 **Like I said, let me know.**

 **Anne**


	4. Miss Carrots

Anne spent her first days in the Glen acquainting herself with the town, and meeting practically everyone in it. On the third day, a nondescript envelope fluttered through the mail slot, landing with a swish on the mat below. It was found two hours later by Anne, who nearly stepped on it as she came in the front door.

"Well, what have we here?" she bent down to retrieve it, and carried it into the room she had already appointed as her study. Hunting through the contents of the desk, she found a letter opener. A quick tearing and rustling of paper later, Anne stared at the short, businesslike letter in her hand.

 _Dear Miss Shirley,_

 _We have just received word that Elvira Schlomer (formerly Evans) will no longer be the teacher of English and History at the Glen St. Mary School, due to her recent nuptials. You are advised to find a suitable replacement as quickly as possible. Should you be unable to do so, the School will be seen as inadequate by the Province and will consequently be unable to start the new school year._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _M. Harris_

 _Director, Glen St. Mary School Board_

Anne dropped into the large chair behind the desk, and immediately popped up again and began to pace.

"But-the school year starts on Monday!" She spoke aloud to the empty room. "It's Tuesday now! How am I supposed to find," she referred back to the letter, "a _suitable replacement_ in six days? I can't even think of anyone!" She mentally tallied all her friends who could possibly fill in-Pris was in Japan with her missionary husband; Phil was in Kingsport, and married to boot; Stella was out West, in Vancouver, and Miss Stacey was now married and in California. But Katherine...

"Katherine might work," Anne sat back down behind the desk and composed a telegram to be sent to Katherine Brooke at the last address Anne remembered. Hopefully, she could get a response back in time, and Anne could work from there.

HOPE YOU ARE WELL STOP HAVE JUST BECOME PRINCIPAL OF GLEN ST MARY SCHOOL STOP NEED NEW ENGLISH AND HISTORY TEACHER STOP CAN YOU PLEASE FILL IN FULL STOP

ANNE SHIRLEY

The response came back late on Wednesday:

JUST RECEIVED YOUR CABLE STOP CONGRATULATIONS STOP AM IN INDIA STOP WILL NOT BE ABLE TO TAKE OVER POST STOP YOU COULD TRY FILLING IN YOURSELF FULL STOP

KATHERINE BROOKE

Of course, thought Anne. Katherine had always wanted to see the Taj Mahal. But why, for the love of all that was holy, did she have to see it now?

"Now what?" Anne gently banged her head against her desk. She rested her cheek against the smooth wood. "The only person who could have filled in is looking at the Taj Mahal." Her current angle, slumped over the desk with her nose nearly brushing the telegram, gave her an excellent view of the last line: _You could try filling in yourself._

Anne shifted so that her chin was now propped up on the desk. Anyone walking in now would have seen what appeared to be a disembodied head lolling precariously on the edge of the desk. Anne looked at the fireplace directly across from her, the flames giving everything a warm light. "Of course," she said. "Why didn't I think of that?" Two heads were better than one, as the saying went, and she was indeed a suitable candidate, having taken High Honors in English at Redmond. "I can fill in until I find a replacement."

Secure in the knowledge that her school was at least temporarily safe, she padded to the kitchen to find a snack, composing her letter to the school board as she went.

* * *

On Monday morning, Anne was the first at the school, locking her house door before shuffling through the leaves to the front door of the school, turning out all her pockets, realizing that she had forgotten the school keys at home, and rushing back into the house to get them. In the end, she arrived in the front hall slightly out of breath, but before everyone else.

Unlocking a small closet, she pulled out an easel and a large, but portable slate. Placing the easel where it could be seen by anyone coming into the school, she wrote:

 _Educating the Mind_

 _Without educating the Heart_

 _Is not Education at all.*_

 _That should set the tone_ , she decided. She was no army-sergeant, that was certain. In her experience, students did better with love and creativity than punishment and rote memorization.

Anne sat down on the staircase with her class list, trying to visualize the faces that might go with the names.

"James Garder." He was probably dark-haired, upright, with a serious look on his face.

"Henry Rodney." Another upright name. Another serious-faced boy came to mind.

"Charlie Parr." Probably a gangly fellow, all limbs.

"Mary Margaret O'Malley." Goodness. That was quite some alliteration. She would probably have red hair-poor girl-green eyes and freckles. The poor girl was cursed threefold.

And there, at the bottom, squashed between Alec Bouvier and Alonzo Murphy (an Alec and an Alonzo in the same class-Anne decided to write Phil as soon as possible; she would have a laugh about the names of her two former suitors making an appearance in Anne's classroom) was a name that stopped her cold.

 _Joyce Blythe._

* * *

"Papa, I'm scared." Joy looked up at her father, her violet eyes brimming with tears. "What if the teacher's mean?"

Gilbert knelt down to button his daughter into her coat. "Miss Shirley is definitely not mean." _In fact, she was one of the kindest people he knew_.

"But what if?'

"There is no 'what if'." He leaned down and kissed her on the nose. "Now come on or we're going to be late."

Father and daughter walked hand in hand towards the school, kicking leaves and laughing, Joy chattering and asking questions all the way.

"Papa, you drove Miss Shirley home. What's she like?"

"Well…" he trailed off, "she's very much like you. She likes looking at things, and seeing the beauty in everything."

"Is she pretty?"

 _Oh._ "Erm...yes," he allowed. "Very." A version of Anne, from their days at Redmond, slipped into his mind, _arrayed in a frilly green gown, with the virginal curves of arms and throat slipping out of it, and white stars shining against the coils of her ruddy hair. The vision made him catch his breath,**_ and it was only the voice of his daughter that shook him out of his reverie.

"What does she look like?"

He grinned down at her, remembering his daydream. "Wait and see."

They continued down the road, kicking leaves, until they came to the school's double doors. _All right_ , thought Gil, _here we go_. His baby girl was going to school.

* * *

Anne heard the front doors open and stood up from the stairs. She saw the figures silhouetted in the doors and as she got closer to them, she made out the father and daughter standing in the entrance.

 _Well, speak of the devil_ , she thought, wondering momentarily what Mrs. Rachel's face would have looked like had she been able to hear her thoughts. Gilbert Blythe and his daughter were her first pair today.

"Good morning," she smiled as she came up to them. " _Doctor_ Blythe, and this young lady, I assume, is Joyce?"

The young lady in question had her head tipped back, looking up at her teacher in wonder.

Gilbert nudged her. "Joy?"

"Your hair," the little girl whispered, "it's like carrots."

Anne fought the simultaneous urges to roll her eyes and laugh hysterically. Or maybe cry. "Like father, like daughter," she said, chuckling. "Welcome-Joy?" she looked up at Gilbert to make sure she had heard correctly. He nodded. "Is this your first time in school?"

The girl nodded. Anne nodded right back, and straightened up. "I'm a bit surprised Mrs. Blythe didn't come along-mothers usually drop their children off at school instead of fathers. But unless you'd like to follow us around all day, Doctor Blythe…" she nodded towards the door.

"Bye, sweetheart." Anne started, until she realized that Gilbert was talking to his daughter. Just as he turned to go, Joy flung herself at her father.

"Papa, wait!"

He lifted her up, cradling her against him. "What is it?"

"I love you, Papa."

A little part of Anne's heart melted into a puddle at this. She saw Gilbert's face dissolve into a mixture of love, happiness, and pain that she saw every first day of school. But this...this was different. It was Gil, her chum Gil, holding his daughter and entrusting her into her, Anne's, care.

"I love you too, sweetheart." Gilbert dropped a kiss on her nose. "Have a wonderful day." Just before he closed the door behind him, he looked back. "I'll be here to pick you up when school lets out." He gave Anne one last, pained smile, and closed the door.

Instead of dissolving into a puddle of tears the way Anne had seen many do at this moment, Joy simply looked at her surroundings with an awed look on her face. Anne reached down and took her by the hand, leading her to the stairs she had been sitting on prior to the Blythe's arrival.

"Now," she said, patting the carpeted stair next to her, "why don't you tell me a bit about yourself while we wait for the others to arrive?"

Joy swung her legs a little, still taking in her surroundings. Finally, lifting her violet eyes (oh, how Anne would have envied her those eyes at her age!) to Anne's grey ones, she said, "I've seen you before."

Anne nodded. "I've been here since Saturday. With my hair, I'm not that hard to spot," she gestured to the mass of red curls on her head.

Joy shook her head. "I haven't see you here. I saw you in a picture my papa has. It's of him and a girl, who isn't my mama, from a long time ago."

Anne could think of only one picture that had been taken of her and Gilbert, and that had been the night of the A.V.I.S. going-away party. "That was a long time ago," she agreed. _A very long time ago_.

"I always asked Papa who the pretty lady in the picture was, but he never told me."Joy smiled impishly, "And now I know who it is."

Anne tried to understand what she was hearing. Gil had kept the photo? And he kept it while he was married? Didn't his wife have anything to say about that?

"Can you read, Joy?" she asked, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters.

Joy nodded, chestnut curls bouncing. "A little. But I can't read the books in Papa's office."

"Well, I think I'd have a hard time, too," Anne laughed. "You'd need to be a doctor to understand those. Let's try with something easier." She produced the class list she had been reading and smoothed it out. "Do you recognize any of this?"

A small finger went down the list and poked the second-to-last name. "That's me!"

"Well done!" Anne gave her a quick squeeze. "Do you recognize any others?"

"That's James," she poked the paper, "and that's Charlie, and Alonzo." Poke, poke.

"You'll be reading books in no time!" Anne grinned. "Just you-"

"Helloooo?" A voice rang out. "Miss Shirley?"

"Yes?" Anne stood, and saw Mrs. Graham and her two children in the entrance. "Oh, Mrs. Graham! Welcome!" She narrowly escaped dropping the jar of preserves that was thrust at her. "Oh, thank you. I do love raspberry." The two boys, Arthur and Earnest, were sent towards their respective classrooms, where their teachers would be waiting.

The arrival of the Grahams seemed to open the floodgates, and soon students poured into the school, scurrying to their various classes, calling out to one another, ready-in varying degrees-for another year of school.

* * *

*Aristotle

** _Anne of the Island_

 **And that's the latest! I can't wait to publish the next chapter-soon, I promise! Call me a sadist, but I like to wait a little between chapters. It also gives me some much-needed editing time, so there's a practical element to it, as well.**

 **As always, send along your questions, comments and reviews! They're a joy (pun definitely intended) to read!**

 **Anne**


	5. A Slate's Story

It had been a whirlwind kind of day, Anne decided as she straightened up her classroom at the end of it. Alec and Alonzo were best friends, which unfortunately made them a force to be reckoned with. She had decided not to give homework the first day, wanting to give her students a bit more freedom before they had to buckle down and sweat over their books.

All children had left their classrooms, except one. Joy Blythe had yet to be picked up-by either parent. Anne had seen this happen numerous times at the asylum in Halifax: parents dropped their children off at school and never came for them, choosing instead to leave them in the care of the orphanage. There was nothing Anne despised more than these parents, who gave up their children-and to what? To a life that would probably take them West on the orphan train, or leave them in a thread factory. There was always a high turnover rate for those jobs.

But this was Gil, Anne reminded herself. She had seen the look on his face that morning-he wouldn't forget his daughter on purpose.

* * *

Meanwhile, Gil was at the Anderson farm, putting a plaster on Milton Anderson's left leg. He glanced at his watch-he ought to have picked up Joy from school half an hour ago. Abandoning Milton's leg for a moment, he took out his prescription pad and wrote out a note to Anne, explaining where he was and why he would be late picking up Joy. He then handed it to Jonah, Milton's son, asking him to bring it to Miss Shirley at the school.

Then he turned back to Milton and his broken leg. He had a bone to set.

* * *

When Anne came the school steps after locking the door, she found Joy sitting at the bottom of them, resting her chin in her hands, looking up at the sky.

Anne sat down next to her. "Is you mother going to come to get you, Joy?"

The little girl shook her head. "She can't."

Anne scooped up a handful of maple leaves, spreading them out to make a fiery carpet in her lap. "Why not?"

"She's dead." The phrase, spoken so simply, broke Anne's heart. And then, realizing the insinuations she had made that morning, plunged her into shame.

"Oh, darling," Anne put her arm around Joy, tucking her to her side, "I'm so sorry."

Joy looked up at her teacher's grey eyes, which were brimming with tears. "It's alright, Miss Shirley-I never knew her. And my Papa loves me twice as much, since it's just the two of us."

"He certainly does," Anne murmured, remembering how Gilbert and Joy had said good-bye that morning. "You know," she said, "I never knew my Mama either."

"What happened to her?" I had never occurred to Joy that an adult could be like her.

"She got very sick when I was just a few months old."

"And did your Papa take care of you then?"

Anne shook her head sadly. "No, dear. He died as well."

Joy's eyes widened into horrified orbs. Miss Shirley had lost _both_ parents? To her six year old mind, that was quite possibly the worst thing that a person could have happen to them. Life without Papa? It sounded like her version of Hell. "That's terrible, Miss Shirley!" she exclaimed. "What happened to you?"

Anne's eyes misted over as she remembered her childhood. The asylum, the families, and finally Green Gables. "I was sent to an orphan's house. And from there, I was sent to live with a great many families, until I came to Prince Edward Island."

She was interrupted by Susan Baker coming up the road. "Miss Shirley!"

Anne stood up. "Yes?"

Susan handed her a folded piece of paper. "I got this note from the Anderson boy-he was on his way to see you, but asked me to deliver it since I was coming this way. It's from Doctor Blythe-he's at the Anderson's now, setting old Milton's leg. The man fell out of a tree, from what I hear. If it was the big elm outside their house, he's lucky he didn't break his neck." She adjusted her hat and shawl. "Well, I'll be on my way now," she looked apologetic, "I'd take Joy off your hands, but I have to go see my sister-her children both have the measles, and she's under a terrible strain," she continued on her way, "good day to you, Miss Shirley."

"Thank you!" Anne called after her, opening the note with its prescription letterhead.

 _Anne-_

 _I'm at the Anderson farm, setting a broken leg. I'm afraid I'll be late picking up Joy from school. The plaster should set in about an hour, and I'll be by then._

 _Gil_

"Well," Anne said, folding the note and putting it away in her pocket, "it seems your father will be a bit late. Why don't we wait for him at my house?"

Joy popped up from the steps, and the two of them raced for the house.

* * *

Joy looked around as Miss Shirley let her into her house. It was, she thought, the most beautiful house she had ever been in. It wasn't a palace, like in the stories Papa told her, but it had a beautiful spirit. When she told Miss Shirley so, she laughed.

"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" When they were in the kitchen, Miss Shirley had her sit down at the kitchen table. "Milk or tea?"

Joy had never drunk tea in her life, and so chose the milk. As Miss Shirley poured her a cup full, she continued, "When I was young, I always thought I would live in a castle in Spain, full of diamond sunburst and marble halls. Now, I would prefer to live here, in my House of Dreams, teaching and writing stories." She put a pot of water on to boil, measuring tea leaves from a tin and into a teapot.

Joy looked up at her teacher. "Do you write stories, Miss Shirley?"

She nodded, looking into the pot to see if the water was boiling yet, and Joy remembered how Susan always said that 'a watched pot never boiled.' "I do. It's my other job, after teaching."

"Why do you write?" Joy cocked her head.

The water was boiling now, and Miss Shirley poured it into the teapot, reaching into the cupboard for a cup and saucer. "Well, I've always liked to tell stories-even if there isn't anyone to listen. I used to tell myself stories when I felt alone, and I never stopped, really. I just started putting them on paper."

Children are much more perceptive than adults-and Joy was more perceptive than most. Something in her recognized the broken child in Anne, and reached out to her. "What were you like as a child, Miss Shirley?"

Miss Shirley sat down across the table with her tea and smiled. "Let me tell you a story…"

* * *

Anne stared at the little face across the table from her, realizing that she actually wanted to know about her childhood. How did one present years of asylums and foster families to a six-year-old without breaking their spirit? She decided to gloss over most of it, leaving in only that she lived with a great many families as a young child.

"And then, when I was eleven, a woman came to the asylum, saying that a friend of a friend of her sister's had asked for a little girl. And somehow, she chose me. I remember taking the ferry to the Island, and then the train to Avonlea. And wasn't Matthew surprised when he found out I was a girl!" She laughed at the memory. "It turned out that the Cuthberts had asked for a boy to help them on the farm-and they got me instead. They didn't turn me away, and that-the first time I'd ever had a real family-was the beginning of my childhood."

Joy studied her seriously. "You're 'Carrots'."

Anne nearly choked on her tea. "I beg your pardon?"

"I once found a piece of an old slate in Papa's desk drawer. I asked him why he had it, and he told me about a girl who lived with Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert. He said that the first day he saw her, he really, really wanted to get her attention, and be her friend. So he pulled her braid and called her 'Carrots'. And then she cracked him over the head with her slate. He said he kept it as a reminder, although he wouldn't say of what. He just told me not to call people names."

Anne sat very still, with her hand pressed over her heart. Gil had told Joy about her? A warm feeling welled up inside her soul. Somehow, she felt that she had been a tiny part of Joy's early years now.

"Well, I've told you about my childhood," she said, managing to squeeze past her heart, which was lodged very firmly in her throat. "What about yours?" Yes, it was a shameless ploy to get more information about Gilbert and how he had raised his daughter-and she was only a tiny bit embarrassed to be fishing for details.

"My Mama died when I was born," Joy started, her violet eyes trained on Anne's grey ones. "Papa says her name was Christine, and that she was very beautiful, with black hair and eyes like mine. And he says she loved me, but he looks a little funny when he says that.

"I was born in Toronto, but Papa moved to the Island when I was a baby. Sometimes, people say that I'm not an Islander, but I'm _Island to the core,_ "* Joy said defiantly, as if daring anyone to dispute her.

"That's what I tell people," Anne sipped her tea, which had by now started to cool. "I may have been born in Bolingbroke, but the Island's my home. Now-"

Three quick knocks sounded at the back door, and Gilbert stepped into the kitchen after being let in by Anne.

"Hello Anne," he took off his hat, which was sprinkled with water droplets-Anne hadn't realized that it had begun to rain while she and Joy had been sitting in her kitchen. "Sorry it took so long for me to get here. Milton Anderson fell out of a tree-it's a blessing that the only thing he broke was his leg, really." Then realizing he was starting to babble, he turned to Joy. "Ready to go home, sweetheart?"

Joy nodded, and Anne helped button her into her coat before Gilbert ushered her out the door to the buggy waiting at the gate. Halfway there, however, she turned back and nearly flew up the back steps, wrapping her arms around Anne's waist.

"Thank you, Miss Shirley!"

Then she ran back to the buggy, where Gilbert lifted her onto the seat and climbed in beside her. He gave a whistle to the horse, who moved forward. Anne retreated to her kitchen, where she sat down again, intending to finish her tea. He eye caught on a grey felt hat on the floor-Gilbert's, which he had dropped when he gave Joy a hug, and then forgotten.

She picked it up, and nearly tripped on her way down the now slippery back stairs. If she was quick, she might catch up to them by the end of the lane.

There they were, just a few hundred feet down the road. Anne ran as best she could, ignoring puddles and ruts. It was, for reasons even she could not fathom, imperative that she return Gilbert's hat.

"Gil!" She called out, stopping for the stitch in her side. "Gil, your hat!"

The buggy slowed to a halt, and Gilbert's face appeared around the side, followed by the rest of him as he jumped out and began to walk towards her.

* * *

"Gil, your hat!" Gilbert heard as the buggy neared the end of the lane. He stopped the horse, and looking back, saw a slightly bedraggled, redheaded figure standing in the middle of the road, clutching his grey hat. _Anne had run after him to return his hat?_

He jumped out and walked quickly towards her. "Anne?"

She clutched her the stitch in her side. "Your hat." She held out the grey felt, now a little worse for wear after having been wetted twice and dragged along a merry buggy chase.

A smile twitched at the corners of Gilbert's mouth. "You could have sent it home with Joy tomorrow."

"That," she gasped for air, "did not occur to me." She was shaking a little now, whether from cold or running, he didn't know.

He wrapped his arms around her. "Breathe," he whispered. "Thank you for returning the hat, albeit in a very dramatic fashion."

She chuckled into his jacket. "I can never do anything half-way, can I?" She looked up at him then, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I insulted you this morning-I shouldn't have assumed that you were a bachelor after all these years, and seeing Joy-she's a delight, by the way-I just lost my head a little. And I _am_ sorry about Christine, even though I never liked her. And...and…"

He couldn't help himself. Anne was, in this moment, exactly like the one he had fallen in love with all those years ago. He dropped a kiss onto the end of her nose, very much like the ones he gave Joy, but also entirely different, _because this was Anne_.

"Don't apologize," he smile, feeling a small part of his heart drop into place, one he hadn't even noticed had been missing until now, "I'm just glad it was you I picked up at the train station."

* * *

 _*Anne of the Island_

 **And where do we go from here, I wonder? I confess that I have no idea.**

 **As usual, reviews, comments and suggestions are welcome (especially suggestions, right now)**

 **Anne**


	6. Three Ghosts

**So...they moved a bit quickly. I love it when my characters make mistakes! It allows for a healthy dose of self-flagellation later. Here is what went through their minds afterwards.**

* * *

Anne slowly walked home, getting wetter by the minute. After taking his hat back, Gilbert had gotten back into the buggy, and she had watched him disappear around the bend in the road. In a way, it was more than a literal bend in the road. This was the closest she and Gil had ever gotten-and widower or not, she wasn't sure how she felt about it. She had built a life for herself, as a teacher and a writer, and she was content with it. Not resigned to it, because she loved what she did-she was content in her current life. There was no need for her to go upsetting this particular apple cart because of an old friend who happened to live in the same town she did.

It was just...why did he have to go and kiss her? It was like the proposal all over again-him ruining their wonderful friendship! She found herself getting angry not only at him, but at herself; after all, she had gone rushing after him with his hat. He was right-she could have- _should_ have-sent it home with Joy the next day! And it wasn't as if she'd resisted him when... _he was only a friend_!

So that was that. She would treat Gilbert Blythe as a friend, and as the father of one of her students. _That was that._

* * *

It might have made Anne feel better to know that Gilbert was having his own session of self-beration. After putting Joy to bed, he descended the creaking stairs into his study, poured himself a cup of tea from his constantly-steeping pot, settled into his chair, and analyzed his actions.

It would be easy to chalk it all up to a long day, relief at seeing his daughter happy after her first day of school, and Anne rushing after him with his hat. From his desk, a portrait of Christine stared back at him, a black-and-white judge and jury.

He remembered meeting her in Toronto, the year after he'd started medical school. He had left Redmond immediately after Convocation, after hearing the news that Roy had asked Anne to marry him, and Anne, having found her ideal to read her Tennyson by firelight, had accepted him. He was still reeling his first few months of school, trying to convince himself that it meant nothing to him, that Anne could have Gardner and be welcome. After that, around New Year's, he became an automaton whose only function was to learn. Eating, sleeping, and staying alive were secondary to filling up all his remaining mental space with so much information that it no longer thought of Anne.

Enter Christine. She ran into him-quite literally-on the street, on a fine April afternoon. He hadn't seen a familiar face since the previous May, and had been delighted to see an old friend. An old, _married_ friend, he assumed, but when he'd asked after Dawson, she'd pulled a small grimace, saying that they'd broken it off in February. He expressed his condolences, and they parted ways, only to bump into each other the following week. And the week after that. After a while, it became a running joke between them, and it wasn't long before Gilbert shored up the courage to ask permission to court her.

Her father had agreed-but only if Gilbert finished medical school first. He completed his studies in two years as a result, marrying Christine halway through his last year-incensing her father, who was displeased at the fact that his wishes were being disregarded in this way.

He looked back at the photograph of Christine. Christine, who had married him in his last year of medical school. Christine, who'd borne him the child he'd always wanted. Christine, whom he'd been unable to save.

Mrs. Lynde's face seemed to float in front of him, glaring in affront. Had he no respect for the dead? His wife was dead, at his own hands, and he had kissed an old flame-for shame, Gilbert, for shame. It appeared the Great Flirt of Avonlea was still alive and well. Mrs. Lynde seemed to go slightly pop-eyed in fury, then disappeared.

His teacup was empty. He went to refill it, then settle back into his chair, letting the next ghost of his past come to him.

It was, strangely enough, Christine, in all her glory. The memory of her was so vivid that he could almost see her pacing the rug in front of him. She had been a dear girl, his Christine-a city girl, but she had been willing to marry a country boy of a medical student-she had been his reason for completing medical school in as little time as it had taken him. He had been uncomfortable with her money supporting the two of them while he finished his studies, but she had laughed it off, saying she enjoyed being their primary source of income. Even so, he had finished school and tried to set up a practice in Toronto-a place already teeming with doctors of all kinds, and his practice hadn't exactly flourished. Then he received the message from his Uncle Dave, saying that he needed a successor, and had been thrilled to return to the Island.

But Christine had put her foot down. She had been pregnant with Joy at the time, and refused to raise her child in what she termed "a nobody's country backwater". So Gilbert had written his uncle, saying that unfortunately, he would not be able to replace him at his practice.

And then Christine had died giving birth to Joy. He remembered the night with perfect clarity-the life slowly bleeding out of Christine's delicate, fine-boned body. She lacked the will to live, and after a long fight on his part, he was left with a daughter-and no wife.

After his greatest failure as a doctor, there was nothing he wanted more than to get out of Toronto. At the end of the week, he wrote to Uncle Dave, saying that he would come out to the Island as soon as he could.

The imaginary Christine turned to him, smiling slightly. "So you ran."

He nodded thoughtfully. It was a fact he had been avoiding for some time. "I suppose I did."

"Why?" The violet eyes he knew so well narrowed a bit. "Oh, I see...you wanted to leave behind your failure-me." A hurt look came into her eyes, and she disappeared into his mind-fog.

Gilbert tipped his head back. She was right, the imaginary Christine. He had left because he knew that marrying her had left them unequally yoked. She with her money, he with his longing for children and a country practice. While they had never had explosive arguments-Christine was too much of a lady for that-their last months together had been tense. Everything they had ever disagreed upon had come to a head, and he had never been able to make his peace with her before she died. It was one of his greatest regrets that she had died without being able to forgive him for wanting everything she didn't.

Christine's death had left him with Joy. Sweet, innocent, aptly named little Joy. He remembered the day she had found the piece of that fateful slate in his desk. She had clambered up onto his lap, practically holding the slate under his nose.

"What's this, Papa?"

He looked down at it, going slightly cross-eyed with the effort. "That...is a piece of a slate."

"A what?"

"A slate," he explained, "is something you write your lessons on with chalk. You'll have one when you go to school in a few months."

She nodded, curls bouncing slightly. "Where'd you find it?"

He looked at the dark grey piece of stone nestled in his daughter's fingers, remembering scooping up that piece as Anne walked up to the board to stand under the legend " _Ann Shirley has a very bad temper. Ann Shirley must learn to control her temper_."* "It came from a slate that someone cracked over my head, once."

Joy frowned. Why would someone hit her Papa with a slate? Better yet-"Who?"

Gilbert settled back in his chair, the very chair he was sitting in now, and cuddled Joy against him. "When I was about thirteen, a girl came to live with Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert. She had bright red hair that she wore in two long braids, and the first day she walked into the classroom, I decided that I wanted to be her friend. I tried all the conventional ways of getting her attention-winking, spitballs, coughing-until finally, as a last resort, I pulled her braid and whispered 'Carrots!' She jumped out of her seat, and cracked me over the head with her slate, which shattered."

"But why did you take a piece of her slate?"

He let out a sigh, remembering the results of that split second of teasing. "It's a reminder not to call people names. I regretted calling her 'Carrots' for five years."

The memory dissipated, leaving behind an exhausted Gilbert, who dropped off to sleep in his chair, which was how Joy found him the next morning, still in his shirtsleeves, sprawled out behind his desk, a cup of cold tea in front of him.

Anne woke up with the previous day's events hanging over her, but contented herself with the knowledge that it was today was a fresh day, with no mistakes in it. Yet.

After readying herself for the day and locking her house _without_ forgetting the schoolhouse keys, she took the long way to school-via her back garden. The unkempt yard, very much in need of the ministrations of a Marilla-like person, led her onto the road. Looking away from the school, she saw a lone figure driving a flock of geese up the read road. She was tall, and _hatless, but heavy braids of burnished hair, the hue of ripe wheat, were twisted about her head like a coronet; her eyes, blue and star-like; her figure, in its plain print gown, was magnificent; and her lips were as crimson as the bunch of blood-red poppies she wore at her belt._ **

As she drew closer to Anne, she stopped at a gate, opening it to let her geese through. _She stood with her hand on fastening of the gate, and looked steadily at her, with an expression that hardly attained to interest, but did not descend into curiosity. It seemed to Anne, for a fleeting moment, that there was even a veiled hint of hostility in it. **_

Anne lifted her hand and waved. The girl turned on her heel and followed her geese into a pasture, disappearing from sight. Anne stood in the road, wondering who the girl with the geese was, before turning towards the school. Once inside, she wiped clean the slate with yesterday's quote replacing it with

 _The Beginning is_

 _The most important part_

 _Of the Work***_

She turned to go upstairs. Today was a new beginning-she could feel it.

* * *

* _Anne of Green Gables_

** _Anne's House of Dreams_

 _***Plato_

 **I've now come to the point where I need to give a few shout-outs and thank-yous.**

 **Kim Blythe: Believe it or not, Alec and Alonzo stemmed from an inability to think of any more names :) Hope this chapter explained things a bit better...**

 **elizasky: Oh, I'm so glad you saw the Matilda/Miss Honey similarities! They're exactly who I was thinking of when I wrote that. And thank you for the idea to add Leslie.**

 **AngieAnne: Glad "Carrots" made you laugh! Like father, like daughter...**

 **The countless Guests: Thank you, thank you for the positive reviews! They're excellent incentives to keep sending chapters out into the world!**

 **Lastly, thank you for all the ideas I've gotten from your reviews-they keep adding fuel to the fire.**

 **Anne**


	7. Of Methodists and Men

**Hello, dears! It's been a few days since the last installment, and I've spent the entire day in the kitchen, churning out a heroic amount of pies and breads to send to the market tomorrow. But I've finally got a moment to breathe, and send this slip of a story out into the world. Thanks for the lovely reviews, by the way-it's nice to have my first story here be well received.**

* * *

On the Saturday of Anne's third week in Glen St. Mary, a lady bearing a startling resemblance to a fully-rigged ship came sailing up the lane. Anne, sitting on her porch swing, saw the imposing figure tack towards her house, and sprang up as she realized who it was.

This was no ordinary caller. This was Miss Cornelia Bryant. Anne had heard that Miss Cornelia came to call on every new inhabitant of the Glen. It appeared that it was now her turn for inspection.

Smooth as a ship sailing into port, Miss Cornelia Bryant pulled up to the house. _She had her work under her arm in a substantial parcel, and when Anne asked her to stay she promptly took off her capacious sun-hat, which had been held on her head, despite irreverent Fall breezes, by a tight elastic band under her hard little knob of fair hair. No hat pins for Miss Cornelia, an it please ye! Elastic bands had been good enough for her mother and they were good enough for her. She had a fresh, round, pink-and-white face, and jolly brown eyes. She did not look in the least like the traditional old maid, and there was something in her expression which won Anne instantly. With her old instinctive quickness to discern kindred spirits she knew she was going to like Miss Cornelia, in spite of uncertain oddities of opinion, and certain oddities of attire._

 _Nobody but Miss Cornelia would have come to make a call arrayed in a striped blue-and-white apron and a wrapper of chocolate print, with a design of huge, pink roses scattered over it. And nobody but Miss Cornelia could have looked dignified and suitably garbed in it._

Anne led Miss Cornelia into the parlor. Once Miss Cornelia was settled in an armchair, with a beautifully made baby's dress draped across her lap, her needle threaded, and her spectacles in place, she looked up.

" _I s'pose you've been thinking I was never coming to call on you,"_ she said, _"But this is harvest month, you know, and I've been busy-and a lot of extra hands hanging round, eating more'n they work, just like the men. I'd have come yesterday, but I went to Mrs. Roderick MacAllister's funeral. At first I thought my head was aching so badly I couldn't enjoy myself if I did go. But she was a hundred years old, and I'd always promised myself that I'd go to her funeral."_

"Was it successful?" asked Anne.

"Oh, very. More so when you count that old Joe Bradshaw, a self-proclaimed infidel who rarely, if ever, darkens the door of any church, was there. To hear him singing 'Safe in the Arms of Jesus,' why Miss Shirley, it was something! Joe Bradshaw loves to sing, although if you ask me, it's the sound of his voice he loves more. But isn't that just like a man?"

Anne blinked. "Well, I-"

"Tell me, dear," Miss Cornelia leaned forward in her seat, "what do you think of the Methodist minister?"

"I haven't had the pleasure of attending a service at the Methodist church yet," Anne smiled, "Although I plan on going this next weekend."

"The pleasure!" Miss Cornelia fairly crowed. " _If you'll take my advice, you won't have much to do with the Methodists. My motto is-if you are a Presbyterian, be a Presbyterian."_

 _"Don't you think that Methodists go to heaven as well as Presbyterians?" asked Anne smilelessly._

"That's not for us to decide," Miss Cornelia sniffed. " _But I ain't going to associate with them on earth whatever I may have to do in heaven."_ She sewed a few more delicate stitches into the baby's gown. "Since you haven't met the Methodist minister-and may you be spared that pleasure as long as possible-what do you think of the Presbyterian one?"

"He's...ah…"

"My thoughts exactly," Miss Cornelia's eyes twinkled. "If you ask me, he made a mistake in answering the call. The only sermons he gives are of the useless variety. But isn't that just like a man? He preaches and preaches, and not once has he produced a sermon worth listening to. Of course, I don't say this in public," Miss Cornelia lowered her voice, "and whenever there are Methodists within earshot, I praise him to high heaven, but for goodness' sake, it would be nice to hear a thoughtful sermon once in a while!"

"Miss Cornelia," Anne asked, smiling slightly, "are there any men you have any use for?"

"A few," Miss Cornelia grudgingly admitted, "Captain Jim at the lighthouse, for one. That Doctor Blythe, for another. Did you hear about what happened to him? He came because his wife-a society girl-died. _At his hands_. But isn't that just like a man? Now what kind of a doctor would let his wife die, I ask you? But he's never done anything like that in his time here, and I'm slowly beginning to have faith in the new Doctor Blythe. Not that he's anything like old Doctor Dave, but he's a decent enough replacement."

Anne tried valiantly to keep her head above this flood of information. Christine had died-at Gilbert's hands? No, he couldn't have...the Hippocratic oath floated through her head. _Do no harm_. Once Gil made a promise, he kept it, come Hell or high water. "I always knew Dr. Blythe would make a good doctor."

"Oh yes, you knew him, didn't you?"

Anne nodded the affirmative. "From school. I just met his daughter, you know."

Miss Cornelia smiled. "That Joy. Now _that_ , Miss Shirley, is someone who belongs to the race that knows Joseph. Did you know that Dr. Blythe raised her singlehandedly? He came to the Glen with her when she was but wee thing, barely a month or two old. We all thought he'd remarry, being a young, handsome widower with a small child, but he went against all expectations-isn't that just like a man-and never remarried. Personally, I think he's carrying a torch for someone, but no one knows who. He's not nearly devoted enough to his wife's memory for it to be her-I don't suppose you'd have any idea who it might be, Miss Shirley?"

Anne actually had a fairly good idea who it might be, but held her tongue and shook her head.

"Pity," Miss Cornelia sniffed. "Ah, well. I suppose Providence will reveal it when it sees fit."

Seizing the golden opportunity offered by the lull in coversation, Anne asked a question that had been weighing on her for some time. "Miss Cornelia, I was wondering if you might know a girl I saw herding geese a few weeks ago."

"Geese? There's a lot of people 've got geese in these parts, Miss Shirley." Miss Cornelia looked up from the dress in her lap. "Anything else you could describe her with?"

Anne thought back to that morning on the road. "I didn't see her very well-she was a ways off from me, but she was taller than I am, and quite slender. And she had the most beautiful hair I've seen-golden twisted around her head in braids."

"That would be Leslie Moore," Miss Cornelia nodded in satisfaction. "She's your nearest neighbor.

"There, dearie, I've finished it," she held up the baby's dress. "That little baby can come when it likes, now." She bundled everything away and rose. "I'll be on my way now, Miss Shirley."

The slightly wistful quality in her voice made Anne lean forward. " _Oh, do call me Anne_ ," she said impulsively. " _It would seem more homey_. _Do you know that your name is very near being the one I yearned after when I was a child. I hated `Anne' and I called myself `Cordelia' in imagination."_ She laughed at the memory.

 _"I like Anne. It was my mother's name. Old-fashioned names are the best and sweetest in my opinion."_ Miss Cornelia started towards the door, but Anne held her back.

"Oh, do stay for tea, Miss Cornelia," she invited her. "It would give me great pleasure to have you as my guest this evening."

 _"Are you asking me because you think you ought to, or because you really want to?" demanded Miss Cornelia._

 _"Because I really want to."_ Anne smiled. "Besides, it would be a nice change to share my tea with something other than the wind and the sea."

 _"Then I'll stay. You belong to the race that knows Joseph."_

 _"I know we are going to be friends," said Anne, with the smile that only they of the household of faith ever saw._

* * *

One October evening a week or so after Miss Cornelia's first visit, Anne decided it was too fine a day to pass up a chance to go outside. _There had been an autumn storm of wind and rain, lasting for three days. Thunderous had been the crash of billows on the rocks, wild the white spray and spume that blew over the bar, troubled and misty and tempest-torn the erstwhile blue peace of Four Winds Harbor. Now it was over, and the shore lay clean-washed after the storm; not a wind stirred, but there was still a fine surf on, dashing on sand and rock in a splendid white turmoil-the only restless thing in the great, pervading stillness and peace._

In a moment of exhilaration, she kicked off her shoes into a nearby patch of grass, and picked up her skirts, running straight to the edge of the water, where the surf came up to lap at her toes, stay still for one infinitesimal moment, before rushing back into the sea, pulling at her feet to join it. Anne turned away from it, and danced down the edge of the beach, leaving prints in the sand that were soon washed away by the waves.

Suddenly, she stopped, and the laughter died in her throat. It would seem that she had an audience. There, on a rock not ten feet from her, was the girl with the golden hair-Leslie Moore, as Miss Cornelia had called her. _She wore a dress of some dark material, very plainly made; but swathed about her waist, outlining its fine curves, was a vivid girdle of red silk._

Anne let her skirts fall and gave a slightly abashed grin. "Contrary to all appearances at the moment, I'm not a madwoman. I've just moved to the Glen-I live just over there," she pointed in the general direction of her house.

"I know who you are," Leslie Moore said slowly. "You're the new principal."

Anne nodded. "And until I find a new English and History teacher, also the new teacher." Realising that she had not properly introduced herself, she put out her hand to shake. " _Let's introduce ourselves," she said, with the smile that had never yet failed to win confidence and friendliness._ "I am Miss Shirley- _and I live in that little white house up the harbor shore."_

"I am Leslie Moore. I live in that grey house up the brook. I really ought to have called on you earlier." The words were spoken simply, frankly, without a hint of apology or explanation. Anne got the feeling that Leslie Moore made a living pushing people away from her.

" _I wish you_ would _come,_ " she said, pushing forward, through the curtains of hostility shrouding the woman in front of her. _"We're such near neighbors we ought to be friends_."

"I haven't a lot of friends," Leslie Moore looked off to sea, a storm swirling behind her eyes. "Marriage took those away from me."

Anne tried to keep the surprise from showing on her face. "You're married?" Leslie Moore was married? She looked nothing like what Anne expected a married woman to look like.

"Nearly fifteen years."

"But...you…"

"Don't look old enough for it? Think again. I'm nearly thirty-one. I was married to Dick Moore when I was sixteen." The grim tone of her voice told Anne all she need to know about the marriage. "Dick disappeared some years ago-went to Havana and never came back. I can't say I'm sorry," the last sentence was blurted out, almost as if it were a secret she wasn't allowed to tell.

Anne looked at the woman in front of her, with her coldness-but there was also something in her that begged for a friend. "This may be quite forward of me," she said tentatively, "but would you like to come for dinner? I love my little house, but it's my first time living alone in one, and it can be a bit lonely at times. I've always lived with friends or boarded, so I'm not quite used to the emptiness."

The curtain of hostility parted, leaving a more innocent, almost childlike Leslie in its wake. "Do you mean it?"

"I wouldn't offer it if I didn't mean it."

A peal of bell-like laughter escaped Leslie. "Then I accept, Miss Shirley, with pleasure."

Anne put her arm through Leslie's leading her up the shore. "Well, since we're going to be such good friends, you must call me Anne."

"Call me Leslie."

And the two of them set off towards the little white house, arm in arm, carefree as a pair of schoolgirls, unaware of a pair of twinkling hazel eyes following them from the road above them.

* * *

Anything in italics is from _Anne's House of Dreams._

 **Well, this was basically my take on two chapters from _Anne's House of Dreams:_ "Miss Cornelia Bryant Comes to Call" and "Leslie Moore". Both are important characters in the Glen, and I had to introduce them somehow.**

 **Now, let's have a show of hands: should the next chapter be Gilbert-centric, or should we take a peek at Green Gables?**

 **Anne**


	8. Conference

**Happy Friday, dears! Well, this one comes after a longer gap than I'm used to-but for a good reason. In honor of Halloween, I decided to include a bit of Poe in here (can you guess which one yet?). I wanted to publish closer to the 31st, but I decided I couldn't help myself (and it's close enough, right?)...here you go!**

* * *

 _She was avoiding him_.

It had been over a month since the hat incident, and Anne Shirley-oh, excuse him, _Miss Shirley_ -had patently managed to keep at least fifty feet between them at all times. Whenever they did happen to be in the same room, she addressed him as _Dr. Blythe_ , and he, in turn, addressed her as _Miss Shirley_. Two could play at this game, after all.

In a way, he was grateful for this space between them-it kept them separate, and him from doing anything stupid again. However, it didn't necessarily mean that he _liked_ it; it was like a parody of the first five years of their acquaintance.

And, as in the first five years, the distance really did nothing to stop his imagination, always prolific when it came to Anne. Lately, his dreams were taking on a quality they hadn't had since his first year at Redmond-nothing a quick dousing of cold water couldn't remedy, but unnerving nonetheless.

What made it more irksome, however, was that his daughter spent her days with Anne, and when she came home, it was inevitably _Miss Shirley_ this, and _Miss Shirley_ that. It was like looking at the world through a window-so close, yet so far away. He would listen to Joy tell him all about her day-and by extension Anne's-while desperately wanting to have seen her himself. It was like being fifteen all over again-only fifteen year old Gilbert had been allowed to sit in the same room as Anne. If he had been able to, Gilbert would have gone to his fifteen-year-old self and told him to enjoy it while he could.

Joy burst in through the surgery door-she had walked home with Mary Margaret, as Gilbert had to stay late. He dropped to his knees and was bowled over in the collision between child and parent. Sprawled on his back on the rug, with Joy sitting on his chest, giggling madly, he realized that this was his favorite part of the day-just being with his daughter, both of them acting like small children.

"So, sweetheart, how was your day?" He craned his neck to get a good view of Joy's laughing eyes.

"We got our Readers today!" It took him a moment before he realized she was talking about the First Reader-probably the same kind he had learned to read with.

His baby was learning to read. "Well, soon you'll be able to read the books on my shelves," he said, only half-joking.

"And Miss Shirley sent this for you." An envelope was dangled in front of his nose. He snatched for it, tearing the envelope messily in his haste to get the paper out.

 _Dear Dr. Blythe-_

 _I will be conducting parent-teacher conferences on Friday, November 1st, to discuss the progress of students individually with their parents. Your appointment is at 3:30, and will last fifteen to thirty minutes. The purpose of this conference is to apprise you of your daughter's progress in her studies and her first months of school._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Anne Shirley_

 _Principal,_

 _Glen St. Mary School_

"Well, sweetheart," he folded the note and tucked it into his breast pocket, willing his hands not to shake, "I've been invited to school to talk to Miss Shirley about you. I hope you've been working hard," he said with mock-threat.

Joy looked offended. "Of course I have, Papa!" She rolled off him onto the rug. "Miss Shirley said at the beginning of the year that she expected us to do our best."

"And I'm glad to hear that you've being doing yours," Gilbert sat up, his hair completely disheveled, positive he was grinning like a loon.

"Alright, sweetheart, let's go home." He stood, pulling her with him. "You can tell me all about school on the way."

* * *

"Doctor dear," Susan's voice floated out of the kitchen when they entered the house. "Dinner will he ready in half an hour. Both of you wash up and get ready."

Susan Baker may have been his housekeeper, but after six years running his household, she had become an honorary member of it. One of her many excellent qualities was perceptiveness, something Gilbert did not want to endure at this particular moment.

Gilbert slipped off his shoes before going past the kitchen. He had made it past the door, and was halfway down the hall when a throat clearing from the kitchen called him back.

"Doctor dear, could you come in for a moment? And do remember that the taking-off-shoes-before-sneaking-by trick never works."

Gilbert sighed, slipped his shoes back on, and entered Susan's kitchen. "Hello, Susan."

"I was thinking of paying a call on that new principal-Miss Shirley. I know it's late-almost two months since she came, but better late than never, as my mother used to say." She gave whatever was on the stove a hearty stir. "You knew her before, didn't you?"

"Before what?"

The look she gave him from under her spiky knob of grey hair would have been comical under any other circumstance. "Before you came here. Rumor has it that-"

"Yes, I knew her. We went to school together."

"Oh, good." A satisfied look crossed Susan' face. "And what was she like as a child, Dr. dear?"

He grinned. "Picture Joy with red hair-that's a pretty fair comparison. She loved to write-still does-and had the most amazing imagination of anyone I'd ever met."

Susan caught a glimpse of Gilbert's face and her eyebrows raised a fraction. Well, well...so _that_ 's the way the wind was blowing, was it? "What happened later?"

Gilbert's face shuttered. "Oh, not much. We both became teachers-she in Avonlea, me in White Sands-and then went to college. After that…"

Susan couldn't help it. "Then?"

"I-we had a falling out our sophomore year. Shortly thereafter, she met someone else, and I'd assumed she married him until the day I picked her up from the train."

"And now she's back," Susan said, almost to herself. "Well, I've heard what I needed to, Dr. dear. Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes."

Aware that he was being dismissed, Gilbert escaped.

Susan turned back to her stove, her mind sorting through the information she had just received. It appeared that the gossip mill was at least partly right: the doctor and Miss Shirley had known each other...and it did seem as though at least one still harbored feelings for the other. As to the other, well...Susan would just have to pay a call on her to see.

* * *

Friday, the first of November. Anne had spent the day speaking with all of hes student's parents, apprising them of their children's progress-or lack thereof, in a few cases. She was exhausted after speaking to so many different people, and there was still one left. She didn't have to check her list to know who it was. _Dr. Gilbert Blythe._

Outside, the wind and rain beat against the windows, making a monotonous noise that would under normal circumstances have been comforting, but was now nerve-wracking. To distract herself from her upcoming appointment-anticipated the way one might, for instance, anticipate an appointment with the dentist's drill-she pulled the first volume of poetry she could reach off the shelf, and thumbed through it.

"The Raven." How fitting.

The rain pounded harder as she began to recite, the desks and slates as her audience.

" _Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,_

 _Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,-_

 _While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,_

 _As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door._

"' _T'is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;_

 _Only this, and nothing more."_

 _Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,_

 _And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor._

 _Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had to sought to borrow_

 _From my books surcease of sorrow,-sorrow for the lost Lenore,-_

 _For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore,-_

 _Nameless here forevermore._

The poem gripped her, and her recitation became more lifelike, more absorbing-because Anne was no longer standing in her second-floor classroom in Glen St. Mary; she was the scholar standing in his study slowly becoming terrified by the rustling of the purple curtains, the tapping at the door, the windows, repeating to herself, "' _Tis the wind, and nothing more_."

As she rose to a crescendo, coming to the last verses, she felt gripped by the terror and longing of the scholar, raging at the raven.

" _Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee,-by these angels he hath sent thee_

 _Respite-respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore!_

 _Quaff, O, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"_

 _Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"_

She was shaking now, blind to everything but the poem in front of her, seeing only the raven perched on the bust of Pallas, casting its shadow on the floor, keeping the scholar pinned beneath it.

" _Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting,-_

" _Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore!_

 _Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!_

 _Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!_

 _Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door!_

 _Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"_

 _And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting_

 _On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door;_

 _And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,_

 _And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;_

 _And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor_

 _Shall be lifted-_ nevermore!

She slumped against the desk, still feeling the emotions rolling through her from the poem, the last word ringing in her ears: _nevermore, nevermore, nevermore…_

Applause rang out from the corner near the door, just out of her line of vision.

"Aaaaaaaagh!" She shrieked and practically levitated. And then came crashing down to the floor in a heap of skirts, legs and book. Gilbert Blythe was standing in the corner, clapping enthusiastically at her unintentional performance.

"Don't they knock where you're from?" She gasped, covering her legs with her skirts.

"I did knock," he helped her up, "but nobody answered, and I heard you speaking. I cracked the door open, and decided to stay and watch the show. You've only improved, by the way," the hazel glint in his eye had a hint of nostalgia to it. He was remembering another recitation, long ago, at a certain concert. He'd been just as proud, and just as enthusiastic in his applause as he was now.

It gave him hope, this recitation. It showed that the Anne of old wasn't gone, replaced by the Anne who seemed to have turned avoiding him into a career.

"Well," she smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. "After this slightly unorthodox start, why don't we begin the conference? Do have a seat, Dr. Blythe." She gestured to the chair in front of her desk, and settled herself into the one behind it.

 _Dr. Blythe_. The words cut into his heart. Usually, when spoken by any other person, they caused a small swell of pride in his chest-he was a _doctor_ now! But when Anne spoke them, it was as a way to distance herself from him, to keep some formality between them.

"Now," she leafed through a stack of papers on her desk, pulling out a sheaf labeled _Joyce Blythe._ "I have only good things to say about Joy. She's bright-one of the brightest I've seen-and has adapted to life in the classroom very well. I'm teaching the first-graders their letters, and here," she handed him a piece of paper with the beginnings of a shaky alphabet, slowly becoming smoother the farther it went down the page. "This is some of her work-it's exceptional for a child to have such facility with a pen at her age. And her reading is improving very quickly," she looked up, then quickly looked back at the paper in front of her. "And….yes, here we are," she leaned down to open a desk drawer and pulled out a slate. "Have a look at this, Dr. Blythe."

The slate was covered in drawings-tiny flowers, animals, objects-it seemed that Joy had occupied herself with drawing whatever she could find.

"Your daughter is quite the artist," she smiled softly, looking at the slate with him. "I'd like to see how she develops this; sometimes children do so on their own, without any help from anyone."

"It's amazing," he whispered, tracing a small flower with his finger, nearly touching it before he remembered that it would ruin the picture.

Anne snapped back into formality. "Unless you have any questions for me, Dr. Blythe," she stood up, "this would be the conclusion of our conference." She waited a beat before handing him an envelope. "These are my notes on Joy-in older students, there would be grades included, but I don't usually grade my first-year students. Now, Dr. Blythe-"

"Anne," he stilled her, "I have a name, you know."

"And for the purposes of this conversation, it's Dr. Blythe." She sat on the other side of the desk, still and white as a marble statue.

"Don't you…" he wanted to finish the sentence. _Don't you feel anything for me?_

"I have my life, Gilbert Blythe," she said firmly. "It is not the one I envisioned for myself as a child, nor is it an unhappy one. I will not give it up; my purpose in life," her voice shook with the effort it took her to tell him this, "my purpose in life is now to teach. And I _shall_ be content doing so." She knew she was trying to convince herself as much as him. She loved to teach, that was true, but she also knew that she and Gilbert had taken different paths after Convocation-paths that would not meet. She had created her spinster's life, and come Hell or high water, she would stand by it. Besides, at her age...she would be a fool to think that Gilbert could ever want her.

He stood, and she rose with him. He stretched out a hand, as if to touch her face, thought better of it, and made for the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back, uttering the same words he had spoken all those years ago.

" _Don't be mad at me for keeps, now_."*

Anne watched him go. Then, when she was certain he couldn't hear her anymore, she put her head in her hands, and sobbed.

* * *

* _Anne of Green Gables_

 **Yes indeed, the poem here was Edgar Allan Poe's _The Raven_. It's at the top of my list of favorite poems (right with _Bingen on the Rhine_ and _The Highwayman_ ). I thought that, since it's getting to be the time of year of ravens, witches and general spookiness, this poem wouldn't go amiss. **

**As to Anne and Gil...oh, I just don't know what to do with these two! Right now, I'm wondering two things: should Gil get sick? (poor Joy if he did!) and how long until I can get Anne and Gil to become friends again?**

 **Anne**


	9. In Sickness

_Kershoo!_

 _Sniffle._

 _Kersh-sniff-Kershoo!_

Saturdays should not be spent with one's nose the approximate shape and color of a cherry tomato, thought Anne as she blew the nose in question after a particularly violent fit of sneezing. The perils of being a teacher were that illness was easily spread in a classroom, making it very easy for the teacher to catch whatever delightful little virus had piggybacked its way into the school via a child. According to Anne's reckoning, it had been brought in by Alec on Tuesday, who gave it to Alonzo on Wednesday, who passed it on to Anne on Thursday. This had been followed by an abysmal Friday for both Anne and Alonzo (Alec was fine at this point, however, which hopefully meant that Anne would be alright by Monday), and left Anne in her kitchen on Saturday, heating the kettle for a steam bath. This was a trick endorsed by Marilla and Mrs. Lynde whenever any of the Green Gables occupants had a cold-a pot of hot water was poured into a basin, and the hapless sneezer sweated it out over the basin, both of them covered by a thick towel to keep the steam in. In Anne's experience, it did wonders, although it was fairly unpleasant to be trapped under that towel while the steam worked its magic.

Three knocks sounded on the back door while she was buried under the towel, breathing in the scaling vapors. "Come in," she called out, not lifting the towel, thinking the knocks to be Leslie or Miss Cornelia.

"Miss Shirley,"-Wait a minute, that voice was neither Leslie's nor Miss Cornelia's. It was familiar, but Anne was unable to place it. "Miss Shirley-are you alright?"

Anne popped out from under the towel, damp and with ringlets in her hair from the steam, to face Susan Baker. "Oh, Miss Baker," she stood up, stretching out her hand to shake. "How lovely to see you. I do apologize for my appearance-I've got a bit of a cold, and I thought a steam bath might help it."

"Don't worry about it, Miss Shirley," the spiky knob of grey hair bobbed as Susan shook her head. "After all, I've come to pay a call on you unannounced."

"Well, it's lovely of you to come," Anne smiled. "Can I offer you anything? Tea? Scones? A spoonful of cough syrup?"

"Tea, if you feel up to it," Susan said. "But if you aren't feeling up to company, Miss Shirley, I can always come back at a later time."

Anne shook her head. "No, please stay. Company might help me feel better." She sneezed again. "Although you may wish to keep your distance, should you like to avoid catching whatever's been going around the school."

Susan sat in the offered chair. "Yes, Dr. Blythe has been talking about that cold. Joy hasn't gotten it, but Dr. dear's been dispensing cough medicine and poultices in enormous amounts."

"That's right," Anne nodded, wiping her nose again, "You're Dr. Blythe's housekeeper."

"I have indeed, since he came to replace Dr. Dave. He came with Joy-she was a wee thing then, just a few months old-and Dr. Dave suggested that he might need a housekeeper. I've cooked and cleaned for the man ever since."

"He never thought to remarry, then?" Yes, it was fishing, and no, she wasn't ashamed of it. At this point, the cold had addled her brain so much that she didn't care anymore.

Susan snorted. "After that city girl of his? No, good heavens. Once was enough for the poor doctor. But if you ask me," she leaned back in her chair, "he's still pining after someone-and not his wife, if you know what I mean."

Anne pressed her lips into a line. "I'm sure I don't."

 _Oh, I think you might, dear,_ Susan thought to herself. Just then, Anne gave a giant sneeze, practically rattling the windows. "Are you quite certain you're alright, Miss Shirley?"

"I think so…" Anne's hand stole up to feel her forehead. It didn't feel too warm-she didn't have a fever, then.

Across the table, Susan was having different ideas. Anne was practically glowing-and not in a good way. "I think I'll leave you now, Miss Shirley, and let you get some rest. Thank you for the tea-I'll call again when you're well."

Anne tried to stand, feeling a bit dizzy as she did. "Thank you for coming," she mustered up a smile as a wave of nausea rolled over her.

The moment the door slammed shut, she collapsed into her chair, grateful for its support. Maybe it would take a bit longer than two days for her to get well…

* * *

Outside, Susan was having very much the same thought. Miss Shirley didn't look well at all-what she needed was a good doctor...if she wasn't too stubborn to call him herself.

Well, fortunately, Susan Baker knew just where to find one.

* * *

"Dr. dear," Susan called as she stepped into the Blythe house, "I went and visited Miss Shirley this afternoon."

Gilbert's head poked out of his office. "How did it go?" He looked a mite _too_ interested, if you know what Susan meant.

"Fine," she said, biding her time. "It would have gone better if she hadn't been burning up with a fever, and coughing and sneezing like an old locomotive to boot."

The look of alarm that crossed Gilbert's face would have been comical under any other set of circumstances. "Coughing? How?"

"It's not consumption, if that's what's worrying you, Dr. dear. But I think you should go pay a housecall nonetheless," this recommendation was unnecessary, seeing as Gilbert was already packing his bag and pulling his coat off the hook.

"Could be pneumonia, though," he looked around, checking if he had forgotten anything, "Don't wait up, Susan," he left through the front door," I could be gone a while."

* * *

Back at the white cottage, Anne was once again huddled in her steam bath, sneezing intermittently. She had been sitting in this steam for over an hour now, and it was doing very little to help. She took another breath-shallow to keep from falling into another coughing fit. Nonetheless, she found herself nearly doubled over in coughing.

A hand came down onto her shoulder and she reared up. How had someone entered her kitchen without her noticing it? She tried to extricate herself from the towel when she heard the voice.

"Anne-are you alright?"

She froze. What in the name of all that was holy was Gilbert Blythe doing in her kitchen? Yanking the towel off her head, she faced him, the room spinning only slightly. "What are you…"

"I am here," he informed her, "because Susan, God bless her meddlesome soul, told me you were ill."

"I am quite well, Dr. Blythe," she said as haughtily as she could, the effect marred only by the sneezing fit that followed it.

"Really…" he drawled. He would have taken more time to admire the figure hunched over the kitchen table, but she was glowing-and not in a good way. "Well," he switched from concerned friend to doctor, "you're already doing a steam bath, which is good. I have a packet of herbs here," he unceremoniously dumped a the contents of said packet into the basin, letting the mixture of spruce, lavender, and lemon balm waft up. Testing her forehead, he felt it to be startlingly warm.

"All, right, to bed with you," he ordered. "Change into your warmest nightgown, and I'll bring up some tea that might help your fever. By the way, where do you keep your hot water bottle?" He remembered that Anne had always kept one at Redmond.

"Linen closet," Anne tried to stand, but her head spun and her knees buckled. How interesting, she noted through the haze clouding her vision, the floor looked so much closer now. And why was Gilbert standing over her?

Gilbert looked down at Anne's form crumpled on the floor, worry signals exploding in his mind. Oh, this was not in any way good. He knelt down next to her, scooping up her limp form. "On second thought, you may need a little help getting upstairs." Staggering only a little-she was a good deal heavier than Joy, after all-he carried her up the stairs, pausing on the landing. "Which room?" he asked, looking around. There were four doors here, and he had no idea which one concealed her room.

No response from Anne. She was limp in his arms, dead to the world. He shuffled his way around the landing, elbowing open doors, trying to figure out which one said 'Anne'. The first room looked as though it had been unlived in for years. The second had the appearance of an old sewing room. The third-the second door on the left-led him into a room that faced East-the light burned low in its sconce, illuminating a freshly made bed with a bouquet of fiery leaves in a pitcher on the nightstand next to it. The last embers of a fire glowed in the fireplace across from the bed, giving a reddish glow to everything near them. There was also a nightgown slung over the armchair by the window, with a cushion he recognized as being one of Miss Ada's. Yes, he thought, this was Anne's room.

He had never been in her room before-not at Green Gables, nor Patty's Place. Strange to think that here he was, all these years later, finally entering the room he most wanted to enter in his younger days.

Gilbert lowered Anne onto the bed as gently as he could. "Anne." No response. "Anne?"

"Hmmmph."

"Can you change into your nightgown on your own?" _Please be able to._

One green-grey eye cracked open and glared at him. "I most certainly can!" she mumbled as indignantly as she could, trying to sit up.

He pushed her back down. "Then I'm going to go downstairs again to make tea and fill up a hot water bottle for you." He passed her the flannel nightgown, leaving the room to give her some privacy. And also to collect his thoughts. He was in Anne Shirley's house, and she hadn't thrown him out yet-probably because she was too weak to. And that was another thing-the fact that she was too weak to get her dander up worried him. The Anne Shirley he knew _never_ backed away from an argument.

In the kitchen, he set the kettle on the stove, and waited for it to boil while he went through the contents of his bag. His basic kit was always there, but he had thrown in what he thought would help on this visit. It was a bad idea to prescribe without having examined the patient, but he really hadn't had a choice in this case. Pulling out a vial, he looked through the pantry, reemerging with some willow bark and ginger root. He added both to the boiling water left over after filling the hot water bottler, then poured the tea into a cup, adding a few drops of liquid from the vial. Carefully balancing the teacup on a saucer, he carried both the cup and water bottle to Anne's room, where he found his unwilling patient, buttoned up to the neck in her nightgown, huddled under one of Mrs. Lynde's quilts, shivering.

He placed the teacup on the nightstand, and then reached under the covers-Anne was too exhausted to feel scandalized-and placed the water bottler under her feet. He helped her sit up, handing her the tea before going to the fireplace to add a few more logs to the coals.

"There…" he turned back to find her eyes trained on him intently. The teacup was back on the nightstand, half-empty now. She wasn't glaring at him; he had been on the receiving end of enough of her glares to know what they looked like. She had a look on her face that could only be described as intent, as if she were waiting-expecting-for something to happen.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked, half expecting her to send him out of her room.

Instead, a small smile hoisted up the corners of her mouth. It was barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it-but Gilbert Blythe was looking. "I know I've been rather horrible to you these past weeks," she said scratchily, her voice roughly making it past her throat, "but would you mind keeping me company?" she asked quietly. "There are no slates within arm's reach, if that's what's worrying you," she noted his hesitation.

"Well, then I'll join you," he pulled the armchair up to her bed, " _Carrots._ "

A spark he hadn't seen in a long time lit in her eye. "Careful, it took me five years to talk to you last time."

"Lucky me," he chuckled, "it only took two months this time."

A soft look came over her then. "I don't _want_ to hate you, Gil. It's just that-" a coughing fit took over whatever the end of her sentence would have been.

When she was done he looked at her handkerchief. "Well, there isn't any blood-so no consumption or pneumonia. It's probably just a nasty version of the cold that all the children have."

"I could have told you that," she raised an eyebrow, "and I'm not even an M.D."

"A mere B.A.," he teased her. She looked so young now, as if they were still in their Redmond days.

She snorted. "I bow the superiority of the Cooper Prize winner." She turned onto her side to look at him better, the action setting off another round of coughing. "Tell me, Gil," she wheezed, trying to get her breath back, "what happened to you after Convocation? I wanted to congratulate you-the Cooper's no small prize, after all-but you had disappeared." A small wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows as she remembered that day. She had carried his flowers-his lilies-of-the-valley-and worn the heart necklace. Only to learn later that his engagement to Christine would be announced that evening.

Gilbert took his time, pulling a thermometer out of his breast pocket, shaking down the mercury, and then popping it into her mouth- "So that you don't interrupt me." The he settled back in the armchair, putting his feet up on the bed frame, and cast his mind back.

"After Convocation, there wasn't any reason for me to stay-my bags were packed, I had my job with the railroad, and acceptance to the University of Toronto Medical School in the fall. There wasn't anything-or anyone-left for me in Kingsport."

"Ish-ine?" Anne mumbled around the thermometer.

Gilbert gave her a pointed look and tapped the thermometer, sending the mercury back down a degree, making her spend more time with it in her mouth. "Was engaged to someone else all along." Anne's eyebrows raised. " _I knew it and she knew I knew it. When her brother graduated he told me his sister was coming to Kingsport the next winter to take music, and asked me if I would look after her a bit, as she knew no one and would be very lonely. So I did. And then I liked Christine for her own sake. She is one of the nicest girls I've ever known. I knew college gossip credited us with being in love with each other. I didn't care. Nothing mattered much to me for a time there, after you told me…"_ *he trailed off, lest he steer their conversation into rough waters.

"Uh-oo-ah-eed-er."

Even Gilbert, who as a doctor was well-versed in the language that is thermometer-mumbling, had some trouble deciphering this. "Yes, I did marry her. I met her again in Toronto, halfway through my first year of medical school. She told me that she'd broken off her previous engagement, and we suddenly kept bumping into each other all over-entirely by coincidence."

Anne finally spat out her thermometer. "Gilbert, I'm no psychologist, but are you entirely certain it was always by coincidence?"

Gilbert thought back to the many, _many_ times he and Christine had run into each other. Come to think of it...they had happened in some parts of town where Christine would never have set foot under normal circumstances. "But anyways, we struck up our old friendship, and with time, I was laughing again, something I hadn't done since...well, Christine wasn't who I'd envisioned myself marrying, but we were happy for a while." He looked at the thermometer now. "Well, your temperature's still high. Lower than it was, I think, but still unpleasantly high." He stood, picking up the teacup. "I'll go make a fresh cup of tea." Then he disappeared out the bedroom door. Anne heard him go down the stairs, then the rattling of the kettle as he entered the kitchen.

Alone now, she had time to think over what Gilbert had told her. Phil had been wrong then-although not entirely, as Gilbert had married Christine, albeit a few years later. And they had had Joy. Sweet little Joy, who had absolutely no idea-but at the same time far too much of an idea-of their history together. Hopefully, thought Anne, she would never learn that her father had once asked her teacher to marry him!

The pins in her hair were poking into her head from when she had left them in. She sat up gingerly-her head still felt rather like a balloon-to remove them. Slowly, her hair tumbled about her shoulders, free from the twist she kept it in. After giving it a quick combing with her fingers, she tamed it into a coppery braid that hung to her waist, securing it with the rag she kept on her nightstand.

Gilbert came back then, with the refilled teacup and a book in his hand. "I added a bit of laudanum to help you sleep," he handed her the tea before sitting down in the chair again, "and I took the liberty of going through your bookshelf downstairs-and I found this," he held up a worn copy of Tennyson's poems. Opening it, he cleared his throat, much as he did before reading a bedtime story to Joy, but Anne's white hand came to rest on his, stilling him. Shocked, he looked up to find her eyes, more grey than green now, fastened on him once more.

"Gil, I just want to thank you for everything you've done," she said softly. "I'd like to start over, if you don't mind-I can't erase the past two months, but I'd like to move on from them," her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She sniffed-"I never did hold my laudanum well." She held out her hand to shake. "Friends?"

He took her hand in his. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start. "Friends." Then he turned down the lamp, leaving enough for him to read by."

 _On either side the river lie_

 _Long fields of barley and of rye,_

 _That clothe the wold and meet the sky;_

 _And thro' the field the road runs by_

 _To many-tower'd Camelot;_

 _The yellow-leaved waterlily_

 _The green-sheathed daffodilly_

 _Tremble in the water chilly_

 _Round about Shalott. **_

Anne smiled sleepily, recognizing the poem that had resulted in one of her more memorable scrapes-clutching the bridge pile, watching the funeral barge of a flat sink beneath the Lake of Shining Waters, praying for help. And help _had_ come, just not in the form she had expected...or desired. A chuckled bubbled up from inside her, interrupting Gilbert.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," she opened her eyes to look at him. "I was just thinking about the Lily Maid and her unfortunate escapade. Please," she waved a hand, " do go on."

He grinned, knowing what she was talking about, and continued reading.

 _Willows whiten, aspens shiver._

 _The sunbeam showers break and quiver_

 _In the stream that runneth ever_

 _By the island in the river_

 _Flowing down to Camelot._

 _Four gray walls, and four gray towers_

 _Overlook a space of flowers,_

 _And the silent isle imbowers_

 _The Lady of Shalott._

 _Underneath the bearded barley,_

 _The reaper, reaping late and early,_

 _Hears her ever chanting cheerly,_

 _Like an angel, singing clearly,_

 _O'er the stream of Camelot._

 _Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,_

 _Beneath the moon, the reaper weary_

 _Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,_

 _Lady of Shalott.'_

He noticed her breathing slow by the time he reached-

 _And the red cloaks of market girls_

 _Pass onward from Shalott._

And by the time he had come to-

 _'The curse is come upon me,' cried_

 _The Lady of Shalott._

He knew Anne was fast asleep. He finished the last part of the poem silently, reading to himself. Then he placed the book on the nightstand, and turned the lamp to its lowest, so that the flame filled the room with the barest amount of light, letting the moon do most of the work. Pulling his watch out and casting a glimpse at it, he saw how late it was. He pulled a pen and a pad of prescriptions out of his bag, scribbling a note to leave on her nightstand.

 _Anne-_

 _Susan will come by to see you in the morning. Stay in bed-doctor's orders. I'll be by after surgery closes._

 _Gil_

Doing his best to descend the stairs as quietly as he could, he gathered his things in the kitchen, leaving as he had come, through the back door. He walked home with the moon for company, his breath hovering behind him in small clouds. When he looked back, he could just barely see the light from her window flickering through the trees.

Gilbert Blythe gave a laugh of pure joy. He _was the happiest boy in the world. Anne had forgiven him.***_

* * *

* _Anne of the Island_

** _The Lady of Shalott_ : Alfred, Lord Tennyson

*** _Anne's House of Dreams_

 ** _And so ends another chapter! I decided not to get Gilbert sick-I would have had no idea what to do with Joy then. But Anne, on the other hand...besides, I spent a lot of this week experiencing the same symptoms she did in this chapter. And I can vouch for the efficacy of steam baths :)_**

 ** _The time has come once again for me to issue a few thank-yous and replys:_**

 ** _AngieAnne-I sort of reversed your idea...I think Gilbert's more qualified to do the nursing ;)_**

 ** _AussieFicReader-Watch out for Susan and Miss Cornelia as matchmakers..._**

 ** _Kim Blythe-Well, "a good laugh and sleep are the best cures in the doctor's book" I think Anne's done being mad for keeps, now._**

 ** _kslchen-Does making Anne get sick qualify as cheating? By the way, I am sooo tempted to go review every chapter of "Through the Dark Clouds Shining" separately now :)_**

 ** _elizasky-Gilbert was lucky she didn't throw the book at him!_**

 ** _OriginalMcFishie-Glad you're enjoying the story!_**

 ** _Love to you all,_**

 ** _Anne_**


	10. Not Dead

**Well, I'm back. I was hit with a raging case of writer's block-and as a result stayed away from the site, half-afraid to see everyone else's progress. But I finally tapped out the rest of this chapter, and here it is.**

* * *

It was the church bells that woke Anne up the next morning. That, and the sound of someone puttering about her kitchen, taking the whistling tea kettle off the stove.

She cracked open an eye, seeing the sunlight filtering through the lace curtains at her windows, and then turned her head to look at the door that led onto the landing. _Gilbert couldn't still be here, could he?_

Her eyes lit on the piece of paper on her nightstand, and she reached out a hand, bringing it closer to her face to read it. She chuckled as she read it-she could hear Gilbert's voice in her head, admonishing her to stay in bed all day...or else.

She cocked her head, listening for the sounds downstairs. It had to be Susan Baker in her kitchen, then. Well, she thought, at least this would give them a chance to better get acquainted. She had heard a good deal about the indomitable Susan Baker during her short time in Glen St. Mary, and yesterday's short visit really hadn't made a dent in her curiosity.

There was a clattering on the stairs, followed by a loud squeak as Susan stepped on the before last stair. Shortly thereafter, Susan entered the room, preceded by a tray with a cup of tea and a piece of toast.

"Good morning, Miss Shirley," she greeted her temporary charge. "Dr. Blythe sent me to look after you until he can come-Dr. Dear seems to have the idea that you'll decide to get out of bed and meet the world head-on, left to your own devices."

Anne sat up slowly, mindful of her head. "Somehow, I doubt that. I believe that I'll follow doctor's orders and stay in bed all day. Although," and here, a wicked grin crossed her face, "he never did tell me what I wasn't allowed to do in bed." Picking up her tea and blowing on it to cool it, she looked up at Susan. "Would you be so kind as to bring up the stack of ungraded papers that's sitting on my desk, when you have a chance?"

Susan took on the appearance of a chicken puffing itself up in indignation, her knot of hair wobbling on top of her head as she did so. "Miss Shirley. The Doctor _also_ said that you were in no way to do anything tiring today."

Unchristian as it may have been, Anne cocked her head (immediately regretting the action, as the room slowly began to twirl) to imitate Susan. "Miss Baker. Trying to tell me not to chop wood is reasonable. Telling me that I cannot grade papers because it is strenuous is not. Now," she lay her tea back on the tray, "I will be very good, and will not get out of bed at all today. However, for Gil-Dr. Blythe to _demand_ that I do absolutely nothing with all my spare time is unreasonable." She nibbled daintily at the piece of toast, her eyes turning greener by the moment.

Susan sniffed. "Very well, Miss Shirley. But I can't speak for what the Doctor will say when he finds out." She turned on her heel and left, taking Anne's hot water bottle with her.

Actually, she knew very well what Dr. Blythe would say when he found out that his patient had graded papers all day. He would be pleased that that was _all_ she had done.

"Let her think that she's won," he'd told Susan that morning, "that way, she'll stay in bed as much as possible. Besides, I can tell you from personal experience that grading papers can be dull work. If anything, they'll put her to sleep."

So down Susan went, to find the stack of papers Dr. Blythe had told her would be on Anne's desk.

Anne looked up from her papers as the church bells rang noon. Distracted from her grading, she did a mental calculation-wasn't today Sunday?

Susan bustled in with a mug of vegetable broth that had been simmering on the stove all morning. Anne took it gratefully, sipping a bit of the nourishing liquid.

"Miss Baker," she looked at the older woman, "I do believe I've kept you from Church."

Susan shook her head. "It's no matter, Miss Shirley dear-I can worship the Lord just as well from your kitchen as I can from the Presbyterian church. Better, probably, since I don't have to hear Cousin Sophia go on about that Mr. Crawford who's courting her. Cousin Sophia has been married twice already, and both gentlemen died," here Susan paused ominously, "of causes unknown. If Mr. Crawford wants to live to see the next century, he'd do well to take his courting elsewhere."

"And if he loves your cousin?"

"Albert Crawford is not, was not, and will not be in love with Cousin Sophia," decreed Susan. "If anything, it's her double inheritances he's after."

Anne patted the chair next to the bed in invitation. "Oh, I can't believe that he's so bad as that, Miss Baker. Surely he wouldn't court her unless he felt _something_." What that something was, however, could be debatable, thought Anne, remembering a few of her own proposals.

"Usually, Miss Shirley, when a man courts a woman, he feels something for her. But the Crawfords were always more in love with money than anything else." Susan settled herself in the chair, sighing. Seeing an opportunity for information, however, she took it. "Dr. Blythe, on the other hand, now he's the kind'll marry for love." _Ah-ha_ , she thought, seeing the flush creep across Anne's cheek. "I've known the man for six years, Miss Shirley, and I can tell you that I've rarely seen him as happy as I did this morning."

 _Good Lord,_ thought Anne, _the woman will stop at nothing_. She was tempted to bring Susan up to date on her relationship-past and present-with Gilbert, but had an inkling that telling Susan might be like telling Mrs. Lynde; the news could reach Charlottetown by the next morning. But she bit her tongue-a skill developed over many years of trial...and error.

"Miss Baker," she changed the subject, "tell me what you think of this essay. Can you believe that Lettie Reese defined an alligator as _a large kind of insect?_ "

* * *

Gilbert Blythe found himself humming on the way back from church to Ingleside. Next to him, Joy picked up the tune and hummed along with him, adding the words:

 _Farewell to Nova Scotia_

 _And your sea bound coast_

 _Let your mountains dark and dreary be_

 _For when I am far away_

 _On the briney oceans tossed_

 _Will you ever heave a sigh_

 _Or a wish for me?_

About halfway through, Gilbert joined in, accompanying his daughter a full octave lower.

"Very good, sweetheart," he squeezed her hand when they were done. "You'll be joining the church choir before you know it."

"Will we get to sing _Farewell to Nova Scotia_?"

Choking back a laugh, he tried not to make it too obvious. "Ah, probably not."

Joy wrinkled her nose. She wasn't too sure she wanted to join a choir where they didn't sing fun songs.

"You'll get to sing the Psalms, though," Gilbert tried pointing out, realizing too late that that probably wasn't much of an enticement.

Joy sniffed in that way only six-year-olds can, letting him know _exactly_ what she thought of the Psalms.

"Joy," said Gilbert, recognizing the need for a subject change, "I'll be going to see Anne this afternoon, after Susan comes back."

"Who's Anne?" To Joy's mind, the Anne Gilbert was referring to was called 'Miss Shirley'.

Gilbert gave himself a mental slap on the wrist. "Miss Shirley. She got quite ill over the weekend, and Susan's been keeping an eye on her this morning."

"Miss Shirley's sick?" Joy looked up at him with big eyes. "Is she going to die?"

He smiled down at her reassuringly. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

"I'm going to draw her a picture so she feels better," Joy nodded once to punctuate her sentence. And Gilbert knew that once that nod had appeared, the plan had been written-not in pencil, not in pen, but chiseled into marble. Joy had decreed it should happen, and so it would be.

* * *

"Doctor dear," Susan came in through Ingleside's kitchen door to see both father and daughter scribbling furiously. Joy she could understand-the child turned out stacks of drawings-but Gilbert? He'd come home whistling last night, and was drawing today-she had to wonder: what illness was it, exactly, that Miss Shirley had, and was it catching?

* * *

"Anne? Anne?"

Anne looked up blearily, a dark-haired, hazel-eyed face slowly coming into focus. "Gil?" Her voice sounded as though a medium-sized frog had taken up residence in her throat. She tried again: "Gil. Lovely to see you."

Gilbert grinned. "Lovely to see you, too. How are you feeling?" He set his bag down on the foot of her bed, pulling out his stethoscope and looping it around his neck.

"Much better than yesterday," Anne pushed herself into a sitting position. "Thank you for sending Susan-she's done an admirable job of looking after me." She left out her...enlightening...chat with her that morning.

"Well, depending on what I find, I might let you out of bed tomorrow," Gilbert pressed the stethoscope to her back, causing her to give a small squeak at the cold metal. "Breathe, please," she did as she was told. "Cough."

"Everything sounds better," he straightened up, folding up his stethoscope and pulling his ever-present thermometer out of his breast pocket. "Open up, please," he stuck the thermometer under her tongue, sitting back in the chair as he waited for the mercury to show the temperature. "Joy was quite worried to hear you were ill," he started conversationally, "she drew you a get-well card of sorts." He pulled the picture Joy had been working on, neatly folded into fourths, out of his bag and handed it to her.

Anne unfolded it, to find a picture of a decidedly orange-haired figure, holding hands with a smaller one, with dark hair and rather purple eyes. Underneath, in Gilbert's print, it said:

 _Dear Miss Shirley, I'm glad you're not dead._

 _Joy (and Gil)_

The _Joy_ was written in slightly shaky cursive, while the _and Gil_ was once again in Gilbert's hand. Anne gave a muffled snort of laughter at the message, just as Gilbert pulled the thermometer out of her mouth.

"One hundred point...two, I think," he squinted at the bar of mercury. "Not as low as I'd like it to be, but much better than yesterday. I think I'll let you out of bed tomorrow, provided you don't do anything overly taxing, and remain horizontal as much as possible." He looked at Anne, who was smoothing out the paper over her quilt.

"Of all the get-well-soon cards I've gotten," she said, "I think this one's my favorite. Tell her I'm glad I'm not dead, either."

He made for the door, tucking his thermometer back into his pocket. "I'm going to refill your hot water bottle and find dinner-is tea and toast alright?"

"Sounds wonderful," she called after him.

As she listened to him clatter down the stairs of the cottage, she thought of how easily they had slipped back into their old friendship. There wasn't a trace of awkwardness left now-probably due in part to the fact that he had now seen her in her nightgown, hacking her lungs out. That did tend to have a relaxing effect on a relationship.

She was glad to have him back as her friend. Diana would always be her bosom friend, as would Phil, Stella and Priss, but Gilbert had been her best friend in their Queen's and teaching days. She didn't want to lose that.

Gilbert reappeared, interrupting her thoughts, carrying a tray with two teacups and a plate of buttered toast in one hand, and a hot water bottle in the other. "Dinner is served."

He placed the tray on the nightstand next to the pitcher of leaves, pushed the water bottle under the covers, and poked at the coals in the fireplace, adding another log before he sat down in the chair, taking a piece of toast.

"I'm afraid that tea and toast are about the extent of my cooking abilities," he apologized. "I survived medical school on them, and I'm afraid that if I tried to cook anything else, I'd end up poisoning both myself and Joy."

"Have you ever tried?" Anne raised an eyebrow.

"There was the time Susan went to a cousin's wedding," he offered. "I had every intent of cooking a pot roast that would at least be edible."

"And…?"

"Joy refers to it as 'the day Papa nearly burnt the house down'."

"What did you end up eating?"

He grimaced. "Tea and toast."

"Were there any other mishaps?"

"One more," he remembered, "I tried to make scrambled eggs once."

"Tried? Come on, scrambling eggs is quite probably the easiest culinary task available."

"One would think so," he drew himself up in his chair. "But how was I to know you had to scramble them _in the pan_? I ended up with a hard, leathery mat roughly the size and shape of my frying pan."

"Tea and toast again?" Anne guessed. "Gil, didn't you ever watch your mother cook?"

"I did," he defended himself. "But the moment I go near a stove, things magically seem to go wrong. It's like you and cows."

"I would take offense at that, Dr. Blythe, if it weren't so true," she informed him, nibbling at a piece of toast. "Remember when I sold Dolly to your father?"

"The cow you _thought_ was Dolly, you mean?" he teased her.

"The one," she moaned, leaning her head back against the pillows. "She looked so much like Dolly-how was I to know she was Mr. Harrison's?"*

"By the fact that she was _in his field_?" he suggested, ever helpful.

"But he had been complaining that Dolly had been in his field-" she stopped abruptly and gripped his arm. "Gil, you don't suppose Mr. Harrison had gotten confused as well? Did he mistake his cow for Dolly?"

"It's entirely possible," a grin stole across Gilbert's face, "those two cows _were_ awfully similar to one another...and Mr. Harrison never did have the best eyesight," he added jokingly.

Anne laughed and tried to cover a yawn, not succeeding entirely.

Gilbert caught the movement. "All right, bedtime for you," he said.

Anne slid beneath the quilt, turning onto her side to face him. "I forgot to ask: how was church?"

"The sermon was on Mark 12:31…"**

"...'Love thy neighbor,' she said, "how fitting."

"But the real excitement was the announcement of the engagement of one Albert Crawford to Mrs. Sophia Hanson."

"Albert Crawford," Anne thought out loud, "isn't he courting Susan's cousin Sophia?"

"He is," Gilbert agreed. "Was, rather. He's moved a bit further than that, now."

"Susan won't be all too happy to hear that," Anne chuckled. "She spent some of this morning telling me how Mr. Crawford was only after Cousin Sophia's money."

"I'm not sure he is," Gilbert said thoughtfully. Catching another muffled yawn from her direction, he took the book of Tennyson's poems off the nightstand, and pulling the thermometer back out of his pocket, employed a tactic that tended to work with his younger patients.

"Now," he popped the thermometer into her mouth, "I'll read, and you keep the thermometer in your mouth." He ran a finger down the table of contents. "Does _The Princess_ suit?"

At her nod, he flipped to the page, beginning with,

 _Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day_

 _Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun_

 _Up to the people: thither flocked at noon_

 _His tenants, wife and child, and thither half_

 _The neighbouring borough with their Institute_

 _Of which he was the patron. I was there_

 _From college, visiting the son,—the son_

 _A Walter too,—with others of our set,_

 _Five others: we were seven at Vivian-place.***_

Anne settled into her pillow, listening to his voice more than the words, feeling them wrap about her like a warm blanket. There was something in the way he read that made her feel drowsy…

Gilbert saw Anne's eyes drift shut, and slowly pulled the thermometer out of her mouth. Ninety-nine point nine. Much better.

He continued to read until he came to the end of part one, and then, much as the night before, scribbled a note, turned the light down, and hied himself home.

* * *

He found Susan washing up in Ingleside's kitchen when he arrived. She looked up from the dishwater, pointing him to a bowl of stew warming on the stove. "How is she?" she asked, scrubbing out the inside of a large pot.

Gilbert smiled to himself. "Oh, I think she's on the mend."

* * *

* _Anne of Anvonlea_ , "Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure"

I combined the cow incident here with the one in the movie (I'll let you pick out which parts are which). I chose to do this so that it would be more memorable for Gilbert-may L.M.M. forgive me :)

** "And the second is like, namely this, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. There is none other commandment greater than these." (Matthew 12:31, King James Version)

*** _The Princess-_ Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

 **I confess, I'm not sure where to go now. I've exhausted the illness card, and I think Susan's done enough snooping for now...so what next? Anne and Gil are such good friends now...and I've had an Anne-ish moment of not wanting to spoil their friendship. But Anne must marry her widower and fulfill Mrs. Lynde's prophecy ;)**

 **With the holidays upon us, I'm tempted to throw some Christmas at my story, and see where it goes...anybody got any ideas?**

 **Love to you all,**

 **Anne**


	11. Cold December Flies Away

After Anne's illness, November positively flew by, turning into December, bringing with it howling winds, drifts of snow, and a sharp cold from the North Atlantic. The inhabitants of the Glen took it in stride-flannel petticoats were taken out, scratchy wool underthings forced upon children, and people hurried about their business with their shoulders up, protecting themselves from the cold. Once again, Anne was grateful that she only had to walk a few steps from her little white cottage to the school.

She started her days now by laying a fire in the large fireplace in the entrance hall of the school, and waited for some of the older boys to arrive so that they could lay the fires in the individual classroom stoves.

About halfway through the second week in December, Anne received a bundle of letters on her stoop, postmarked Avonlea. Letters from home tended to come in groups, as one of the Green Gables inhabitants tended to take all of the letters to the post office at once. Today's bundle, though, included a letter from Diana.

As was her habit, Anne lay the fire in the main hall, letting it warm the large room to the best of its abilities. Then she settled down onto the carpeted stairs, and unfolded her letters from home.

Marilla's was typical, letting her know that all at Green Gables were well, that there was a new litter of kittens, and that Davy had gotten into a fight at school. She also asked when Anne would be coming home for Christmas-when should she send Davy to pick her up?

Rachel Lynde's letter was typical-gossip about the neighbors; gossip about Josie Pye, who had gotten engaged; gossip about anyone from Avonlea to Charlottetown and everywhere in between. She also asked when Anne would be coming home-" _I don't know if Marilla's asked you-she's getting more forgetful these days (but aren't we all?). Are you coming home this year? You may have made yourself at home in Glen St. Mary, but we miss you in Avonlea."_

Davy's was a jumble of random information-the reasons for his fight (an insult), his resulting punishment (cleaning out the school outhouse), and how much snow had already fallen in Avonlea (enough for drifts to reach the shed roof).

Dora's was, as usual, a perfectly civilized, ladylike missive-nothing old, nothing new. Just little bits and bobs of information that Dora had been taught belonged in a letter-the weather and her health, it seemed. Anne wished she could somehow spark something in Dora-such a sweet little girl, but very much like vanilla ice cream-sweet, but at times uninteresting.

Anne moved onto Diana's letter-true to form, Diana had covered four pages in perfect Copperplate-oh, how Anne had envied her handwriting in school!

 _Dear Anne,_

 _I've been meaning to sit down and write this-but goodness, two children keep me on my toes! Both Fred and Anne Cordelia are asleep now, thank Heavens, and I finally have time to write you._

 _I don't know how cold it's been in the Glen, but here, we thought the thermometer had broken-minus 25! We've had about a foot and a half of snow-no fat graveyards next year, as Mrs. Lynde would say. I'm glad you only have to walk a small distance from your house to the school; one of Fred's farmhands nearly got lost during the storm._

 _I'm sure that at this point in the letter, you want news of your godchildren. Little Fred is delightfully round and red-just like his father. He's running about as if desperate to go somewhere-anywhere. Fred tells me I've got my work cut out with him-chasing about after him all day long. Anne Cordelia still babbles along happily-and her days of napping all day and crying all night are blessedly over._

 _Now, I know you're not going to disappoint me by saying you're not coming for Christmas...are you? And you'll come spend the night once, I hope-I can convince Fred to bathe and put to bed the children for an evening, and we'll pretend to be girls again (trust me when I say that I need this)_

…

 _And how is Gilbert? Have you seen much of him?-after all, you live in the same town now, you're bound to see some of each other. If you see him, tell him his parents would like him to visit soon-he hasn't been back in a few years, and it can't be that hard to find a replacement for a week or two, can it?_

 _Let me know if you need anyone to pick you up at Bright River-I'll send Fred out with the sleigh. Or better yet, I'll come fetch you myself!_

 _Love,_

 _Diana_

Anne smiled. Sweet Diana seemed to be going a little stir-crazy. She made a mental note to write back telling her that yes, she would be coming home for Christmas-right after the Glen St. Mary School's Christmas concert. She had been organizing the particulars of this concert for some time now-each class would sing a different carol, and the concert would conclude with a nativity performance. The Opera House had been rented for a reduced fee, the roles had been assigned, and rehearsals had begun a week ago. It wasn't her first time organizing a Christmas concert, but good Heavens, she wanted to make a good impression in this town.

The front door opened, letting in a blast of cold air, along with two semi-congealed boys bearing firewood. Anne stood to greet them.

"Jim, Charlie-not too cold out there, I hope?" she smiled, "Thank you for bringing so much wood with you today. It looks as though we might get even more snow."

"Yes'm," the boys ducked their heads and went to light the stoves upstairs.

Anne looked after them. She knew that this daily ritual was the punishment for passing some crude drawings through class-and it wasn't _meant_ to be pleasant, after all. But couldn't they act a little less unenthusiastic about it?

The front door opened again, bringing in two familiar figures. Or rather, they looked familiar, but they were so swaddled in coats and hats and scarves, that it was difficult to tell where the person left off and the padding began.

"Good morning, Miss Shirley!" the smaller one piped up, attempting to extricate herself from the large scarf that was wrapped around her, rather like a boa constrictor, thought Anne.

Grasping the end of it, Anne pulled, making the small child spin. "Good morning to you, too, Joy! You're quite bundled up, as I see." She looked up at the father, seeing a pair of hazel eyes twinkling above a heavy wool muffler, which was slowly being unwound from around his face. "And good morning to you, Doctor Blythe. Is it really that cold out there? I must not have noticed on my short walk from my cottage. It's so short that I barely have time to feel the chill before I'm in the school again." She was babbling, and she knew it.

Gilbert's eyes kept right on twinkling. He knew it too.

"Well, you're very fortunate," he replied with mock seriousness. "I think the sleigh is going to be my permanent means of transportation from here on out."

"At least we've got snow instead of the grey slush we got in Kingsport around February," she rolled her eyes, "and you know what Mrs. Lynde says about white Christmases-"

"Well, at least there will be no fat graveyards when Christmas is white," he completed the sentence with his best imitation of Rachel Lynde. Then he bent down to help extricate his daughter from her coats-both of them.

Once she had been divested of her coats, Joy stood between the two adults who bookended her life, and listened to their conversation. She had learned, in her six short years on this Earth, that while talking was a wonderful thing, listening was equally so.

"Gil," Miss Shirley was saying, "I'm running the dress rehearsal for the Christmas concert this Saturday morning at the opera house, and it would be wonderful to have a chaperone who could entertain the boys. Would you…"

Here, Joy stopped listening momentarily, mainly out of confusion. Why was Miss Shirley calling her father 'Gil'? Everyone else in the Glen called him Doctor Blythe-or, in Susan's case, Dr. dear-but Miss Shirley called him Gil. Now, Joy knew fish possessed gills, thanks to an enlightening afternoon spent at Mary Margaret's last summer, when Mary Margaret's older brother Joseph had dangled a live fish in front of them, causing the girls to squeal-and once they had gotten over their squeamishness, they had begun to poke at the now expired fish, and asked far too many questions, in Joseph's twelve year old opinion.

But why was Miss Shirley calling her father the name for a fish's lungs? She pulled on a skirt with one hand, a trouser leg with the other. "Who's Gil?"

She noticed that Miss Shirley turned slightly pink at this. "He-"

Her father interrupted. "I am. You know how my name is Gilbert, sweetheart?" At her thoroughly befuddled look, he laughed. His daughter didn't know his given name-he had been 'Papa' to her for her entire life. "Well, it is. And when I was younger, people called me Gil."

He checked his pocket watch. "And I'm running late for the office. And yes, _Miss Shirley_ , I should be able to help you look after the crowd on Saturday."

Miss Shirley smiled at him, her eyes getting that glow Joy noticed they sometimes got-when she was talking about a story, or when she was looking at a particularly beautiful leaf, and making up a story about its life. "Thank you, _Doctor Blythe_. I'll see you then."

Gilbert kissed Joy goodbye, fought the urge to do the same to Anne, and then left the schoolhouse to make his way to his office as quickly as possible.

The perpetually punctual Dr. Blythe was late.

Again.

* * *

 _Ding dong, merrily on high,_

 _In heav'n the bells are ringing!_

 _Ding dong, verily the sky_

 _Is riv'n with angels singing!  
Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-ria!_

 _Osanna in excelsis!*_

Anne applauded as the fifth graders trouped off stage at the opera house on Saturday.

"Well done, all of you! Just sing out, and let the Christmas spirit fill you!" she called after them.

Next, the top form paraded on, shuffled their way into their places, and waited for her cue to start. She pointed at them, and waved her arms around in a way that she hoped resembled conducting while they sang.

 _Hark how the bells,  
Sweet silver bells,  
All seem to say,  
Throw cares away_

Anne was not what one might call a musical prodigy, but she knew enough to keep a steady beat for the singers to follow. This was the only piece that required her to do this, as all the other grades had the piano to accompany them. But the _Carol of the Bells_ was sung _a capella_ -without accompaniment. While she would have infinitely preferred not to be standing with her back to the audience, waving her arms around in the air, she recognized the need for this. Also, the group had shown its need for conductorship the one time she had tried stepping off for the song.

 _Ding dong ding dong_

 _That is their song_

 _With joyful ring_

 _All caroling._

She looked over the students in front of her, some singing earnestly, as if this were their performance of a lifetime-and others less so. In fact, she thought she saw Jim and Charlie mouthing along a variation of the carol that would have made Miss Cornelia send for any preacher-event the Methodist one.

 _Oh, how they pound, raising the sound_

 _O'er hill and dale, telling their tale_

 _Gaily they ring, while people sing_

 _Songs of good cheer, Christmas is here_

 _Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas_

 _Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas_

 _On, on they send, on without end_

 _Their joyful tone to every home**_

When the last "Dong" had sounded, Anne sent them off to prepare for the nativity part of the concert. She took herself into the house of the theater, waiting for the first angels to come on to the stage.

Shortly thereafter, a dark shape came and sat in the seat next to her. Anne jumped-she hadn't realized Gilbert was in the house with her. "Good Heavens, you frightened me!" she chided softly. "You do that again, and the show might be lacking its director!"'

He chuckled. "Sorry. But I came to tell you that everyone's ready backstage-all waiting for the piano cue."

"Wonderful," Anne was pleased that the changes had gone off without a hitch. "Leslie," she raised her voice so that it could be heard at the piano, "you can begin now."

Leslie Moore was the pianist for this concert, having agreed to play- "Because you won't stop asking me, will you Anne?" She had also waved away any form of payment, under the excuse that she didn't need the money (which was a lie), and that she was glad to do it for her friend (which wasn't). "Consider it an early Christmas gift," she'd finally convinced Anne to see it in that light.

The opening chords of "It came upon a midnight clear" sounded, the cue for the students to take their places. Once the last notes had escaped the piano, the curtain rose to reveal Mary, played by an extremely nervous Rebecca Harris; Joseph, played by George Chenault; and the baby Jesus, played by a baby doll donated by Miss Cornelia.

The piano drifted into "O Holy Night", and Rebecca looked at the doll in her arms, then up at the bright lights shining down on her, George, and the baby. She looked absolutely terrified.

 _Silent night, holy night,_

 _All is calm, all is bright_

She began tremulously, her voice gathering in strength for the last "O night divine," which soared up into the rafters of the theater. It was all Anne could do to keep from applauding right then and there.

Slowly, the younger classes gathered around, dressed as various animals, singing "Away in a Manger," and granted, while the idea of singing animals had originally been repellent to Anne, she didn't deny that they were indeed adorable.

Next, three of the older boys, in robes, crowns and cotton wool beards came on, to lead the rest of the performers in "O Come All Ye Faithful". Tempting as it had been to have them sing "We Three Kings," Anne had an inkling of a feeling that the good inhabitants of the Glen might not be quite ready for such a display.

And finally, the Angels came on in a flutter of choir robes and wire-frame wings, singing the only song that would have made sense for them to sing:

 _Hark! the herald angels sing_

 _Glory to the new-born King_

 _Peace on earth and mercy mild_

 _God and sinners reconciled_

 _Joyful, all ye nations, rise_

 _Join the triumph of the skies_

 _With angelic host proclaim_

 _Christ is born in Bethlehem_

 _Hark! the herald angels sing_

 _Glory to the new-born King***_

Anne found herself humming along with them, satisfied with how well the rehearsal was going, when she felt a warm arm steal around her shoulders. Her humming petered out, as she looked at the owner of the arm in question.

A set of hazel eyes glowed gold in the light from the stage, looking down at her with an expression she hadn't seen in six years, at least. In that instant, while the angels proclaimed glory to the newborn king, permission was wordlessly asked, and wordlessly given. Smiling softly, Anne let herself relax into the warmth of her neighbor, her old best friend. She wasn't entirely certain where they now stood, and she would certainly question that later. But for now, she was content to sit in a slightly darkened theater with Gilbert Blythe, with his arm around her shoulders.

* * *

* _Ding Dong Merrily on High_

** _Carol of the Bells_ -this was written in 1914...but a little artistic license was used here.

*** _Hark, The Herald Angels Sing_

 **You may have noticed by now that I love including poetry, quotes, and songs in my stories. And I won't lie-this one's heavier than most on the songs. I think I got the idea for this from the children's choir I work at-all of these carols have been sung at one point by them, either when I was a member or after I became staff. We're currently preparing for our annual holiday concert-and Anne's line about the Christmas spirit...direct quote from my director.**

 **Happy Holidays! (is it too early to wish you that?)**

 **Anne**


	12. Christmas at Anne's

"Miss Shirley?" Joy looked up at Anne as they made their way towards Ingleside on the following Wednesday. Gilbert had dropped Joy off at school that morning, and Anne had offered to walk her home.

"Miss Shirley, don't you think it would be wonderful to be a snowflake?" Her violet eyes shone with the light reflected by the snow around them. "To be a tiny, beautiful snowflake and float down to Earth."

"...Letting the wind take you wherever it pleased, dropping you gently onto the ground to keep the Earth warm until Spring," Anne joined in. "I used to wish I was a bird, when I was little. I could fly wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I could sleep in a flowering cherry tree, all silvery in the moonlight-and no one could make me do anything."

Joy, perceptive as she was, noticed the sad look in her teacher's eyes. "Did you want to fly away, Miss Shirley?"

"Very, very badly," a corner of Anne's mouth kicked up. "It's why I love stories so much-you can read them, and suddenly you're in a completely different place, as different time. It's like dreaming with your eyes wide open."

"I feel sorry for people who can't read, Miss Shirley," Joy swung their joined hands. "How do they get their stories?"

"Some hear them-stories get passed down, from generation to generation-that's how the Indians do it," Anne told her. "Most of them don't even have a written language-all their stories are told and remembered. Others make up their own stories, and sometimes those are the best ones-the stories made up on the spot."

"What happens to the people who can't make up their stories?"

"I supposed they live less imaginative lives-but they can be good lives nonetheless. When I first came to live with Matthew and Marilla, Marilla didn't know what to do with me-I went off on flights of fancy at any hour of the day, no matter what I was doing-and what's worse, I wouldn't stop talking about it." She smiled at the memory. "It's a wonder Matthew convinced her to let me stay."

Joy looked up at her earnestly. "Miss Shirley, are you scared about the concert?"

Anne blinked. Goodness, this child knew how to change subjects quickly. "No," she said firmly. "Everyone's prepared, everything's ready-all we have to do is perform."

"I'm scared, Miss Shirley," Joy confided softly.

"That's perfectly natural, darling," Anne said. "Performance nerves are a good thing-it means that you care. And if that doesn't help you, concentrate on Christmas. Once this performance is over, the holidays will start, and you'll be a week from Christmas."

"Miss Shirley, what are you going to do for Christmas?"

Anne smiled down at the little girl beside her, squeezing the mittened hand in her own. "I'm going home to Green Gables. I've written Marilla that I'll be there on Sunday."

"You mean I won't be able to see you on Christmas?" Poor little Joy looked crestfallen.

"Oh, darling, don't look that way!" Anne thought for a moment, a small idea popping into her head. "Why don't you come home with me on Friday, and we'll imagine that it's Christmas. How does that sound?"

Joy nodded happily, and the pair set off for Ingleside, just around the bend in the road.

* * *

Come Friday, Joy was unable to keep her toes from tapping excitedly against the floorboards. It seemed that the more she looked at the clock, the slower it went. She decided to make time go more quickly, by _not_ looking at the clock...but she still kept darting little glances at it, and time continued to pass at the approximate speed of molasses in January.

Finally, _finally_ the bell rang, and she was off like a shot, getting her books, coat and hat. She buttoned herself as quickly as her little hands could manage, skipping a button, and having to start over. Even with that delay, she stood in the front hall for some time after the other students had left, waiting for Miss Shirley. She went off in search of her teacher, and found her in one of the upper classrooms, buttoning up her coat, and wrapping her scarf about her neck.

Seeing Joy, she smiled. "All ready, then?"

Joy nodded, too excited to speak.

Miss Shirley locked the schoolhouse, took the small, warm hand in hers, and the two made their way towards the creamy white cottage, with its _rows of Lombardy poplars_ and _cloudy fir wood.*_

* * *

Anne watched Joy, skipping along beside her, excited for all the world to see. Her footprints scattered the snow from the school to the cottage, going up the stairs and coming to rest at the front door, where Anne caught up with her, opening the door to let her in. Joy scampered ahead, while Anne bent to pick up the pile of mail on the floor, sorting through it. A letter from Katherine, a bill from the grocer's, a Christmas card from Miss Cornelia, a card from Phil and Reverend Jo, and...a voucher from the Rollings Reliable Baking Powder Company. Would she never be able to escape them?

Her ire was cut short by a cry from the parlor. "Oh, Miss Shirley! Miss Shirley!"

Anne hastened to find Joy, who stood in the doorway of the the parlor, her hands pressed over her mouth, her eyes shining violet, the way Anne had always imagined diamonds should. She was staring at the small fir in its pot on the side table.

"It's beautiful," she whispered. "It's a baby tree, but-" she looked up and grasped Anne's skirt-"won't it be lonesome away from its family?"

"Oh, darling," Anne looked down at her, seeing herself twenty-odd years earlier, "We're going to decorate the little fellow, and once he's kept us company for Christmas, we'll plant him outside so he can be with his friends again."

"Good," Joy looked relieved, "I'd hate for him to be lonely on Christmas."

"And he won't be,"Anne assured her. "Now, why don't we go make some cookies, and then we can decorate him?"

Joy clapped her hands and skipped off to the kitchen, Anne in pursuit.

Half an hour later found the kitchen-and the bakers-liberally sprinkled in a layer of flour. Anne had never been the most organized of cooks, and it seemed that Joy wasn't, either. A batch of gingerbread sat on the countertop, cooling, as another sheet went into the oven.

Ten dozen cookies later, two exhausted-but still excited-bakers admired their handiwork. One hundred and twenty gingerbread men, women, boys, girls, hearts, stars, and whatever other shapes Anne had been able to conjure up on short notice covered the tabletop, iced neatly...and some not-so-neatly.

"Well," Anne looked at the carpet of brown and white, "I don't think you and I will be able to eat all of these-not even if your father helps. What do you say if we serve some at the concert tomorrow?" She smiled, "Everyone will admire our _patisserie_." Even as she said this, a small voice in the back of her mind-which sounded suspiciously like Rachel Lynde-admonished "Pride before the fall, Anne Shirley. Mind you remember that."

Unaware of her teacher's internal skeptic, Joy agreed. She new from personal experience that the gingerbread on the table was delicious. There was no reason the rest of the Glen shouldn't partake.

Except for Noah Johnson. Noah Johnson had pulled her hair and called her 'teacher's pet'. Noah Johnson would not be getting any of her gingerbread.

* * *

"Now, we decorate the tree," Anne announced, holding up a bowl of cranberries and a handful of half-burnt candles. While Joy busied herself stringing the crimson berries on a thread, Anne clipped the candles to the tree branches, and, when she was certain Joy wasn't looking, hung a stocking on the mantle, slipping a small wrapped package inside.

Together, they draped the cranberry garland over the tree, and when it had been deemed perfect by Joy, Anne lifted her up to attach a silver star, cut earlier that day from a tin can, to the tip of the fir.

Quickly, while she thought Anne went to the kitchen to fetch a plate of gingerbread, Joy slipped _her_ package into the stocking hung on the mantle, and pretended that absolutely nothing had happened. Nothing at all…

Anne returned with the plate. "Now, we have several options. We can eat first, then open presents. Or we can open presents, _then_ eat our cookies. _Or…_ " and here she drew it out, "we could do both at the same time."

"Both," Joy agreed, nipping a gingerbread heart off the plate.

Anne set the plate down next to the tree and settled herself into her armchair. "Why don't you go look in the stocking?" she suggested with a small smile. She couldn't wait to see Joy's reaction to her gift.

Standing on her toes, Joy just barely managed to slip the stocking off its nail. Sitting cross-legged with her back to the fire, she pulled out the gift she had put it. "This one's yours, Miss Shirley."

Anne reached blindly for the gift-she hadn't expected one, actually. Not on this short notice. The small package sat on her lap, as she waited for Joy to open hers.

Joy, on the other hand, was waiting for Anne to open her gift. Seeing her expectant look, Anne laughed. "Together, then?"

They tore their respective wrappings at the same time, revealing some of the simplest gifts ever to grace a Christmas, but filled to the brim with love and friendship.

Joy held a small pen and notebook, both from Anne's desk. The first page held an inscription in Anne's copperplate-

" _To Miss Joyce Blythe~_

 _May you always have a pen and paper for your stories._

 _With love,_

 _Miss A. Shirley"_

Anne had a small wooden box, barely large enough to hold a thimble, with dried and pressed flowers pasted onto the sides. Anne felt a tear roll down her cheek-when was the last time she had received a gift with so much love behind it?

Joy felt dismay course through her as Anne's tears became plural. "What's wrong, Miss Shirley? Are you sad?"

"Oh, no, darling," Anne reached out and pulled her to her in a hug, "These are happy tears. They are most definitely happy tears."

Soon afterwards, a knock sounded at the front door. Anne stood to open it, and let in Gilbert Blythe. After last Saturday, a small warmth came into her cheeks, but it was chased away by Joy flinging herself past her and into Gilbert's arms.

"Papa!" she squealed. "We baked gingerbread, and decorated the tree, and gave presents, and…"

"Christmas came early, I see," Gilbert chuckled, holding her close. "Thank you," he mouthed to Anne. It wasn't that he disliked Christmas, but he had learned very early on in his career as a doctor that if it was a holiday, the chances of his being called out were exponentially higher. Thus, Christmases at Ingleside were sometimes of the harried variety, with Gilbert throwing his bag together halfway through dinner on more than one occasion.

Anne handed him a parcel wrapped in string. "Gingerbread," she informed him.

He smiled, taking the parcel. "My favorite."

"I know," Anne's eyes gave off that glow he knew well from days of old. It meant that she was wonderfully, incandescently happy. "We have enough to feed you and most of Four Winds, I think. We're going to serve the rest of it at the concert tomorrow."

Gilbert looked at Joy, who had quickly fallen asleep on his shoulder. "And I will certainly be there. But meanwhile, this little angel has to go home and sleep." He pulled her arms into her coat, and carried her out to where he had the horses waiting.

Anne waved them off from her door, as the sleigh departed for Ingleside, father, child, and cookies in tow.

* * *

She wasn't quite as relaxed and cheerful at two the following afternoon. It found her backstage, herding various grades into their places-and trying to calm a school's worth of children excited by performance jitters was no mean feat. Even aided by the other teachers, Anne was having a difficult time quieting her students.

"Now," she said, her voice carrying over the twitching crowd, "you are going to go onto that stage and let the entire audience know the meaning of Christmas. You have done exceptional work, and rest assured that I am very proud of you. There is no such thing as a mistake out on that stage-whatever you do will be as it should be, because Christmas does not know mistakes." She smiled at them. "Good luck."

Then she stepped out onto the stage, a hush fell across the crowd. The lights dimmed, until only one spotlight illuminated the principal of the Glen St. Mary School.

Anne cleared her throat. "Good afternoon," she said, remembering the last time she had addressed an audience from the stage, all those years ago at the Debating Club Concert, "and welcome to the Glen St. Mary School's Christmas Concert. We are all honored that you have come, and pleased to share our performance with you. All students have worked diligently to make this concert a success. Before we begin, there are a few people whom I would like to thank. The school board, for providing us with some of the organization required to arrange this-we could not do it without them. Mr. Carl Martin, for kindly allowing us to use his opera house at a reduced fee. Our Parents' Committee, who provided the costumes and most of the refreshments. And lastly, Mrs. Leslie Moore, for being our pianist tonight, and during our many rehearsals. Thank you all, and Merry Christmas!"

With that, the lights went out, and she retreated into the wings to watch the performance.

 _Of course,_ she thought three-quarters of an hour later, _something had to go wrong_. _It wouldn't be a concert directed by me if it didn't._

Her head angel had gone missing. Rosemary Anderson was nowhere to be found, and everyone was already in place for the curtain to rise. Mary, Jesus and Joseph were onstage, and everyone else-except the mysteriously absent Rosemary-was gathered in the wings.

Her robe, wings and halo were neatly draped over the chair in the dressing room.

Anne heard the waterfall of applause from the house, heard Rebecca begin her solo, heard the animals singing "Away in a Manger," as she scrambled up ladders, down stairs, in and out of dressing rooms-all in the frantic hope that she might find Rosemary.

It was futile. Rosemary Anderson seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Finally, Anne knew it was too late. The three wise men came, sang, and left as she flung the white robe over her head, shimmied into the wings, and pinned the halo to her hair. Then, she joined the angels as they took their places behind the tableau, waiting for Leslie to strike the opening chords of their number.

 _Hark! the herald angels sing_

 _Glory to the new-born King_

 _Peace on earth and mercy mild_

 _God and sinners reconciled_

Slowly, the audience members stood up, joining the performers for the loudest, most spirited version of _"Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,"_ the opera house had ever witnessed. When it was done, the applause lasted for minutes, until everyone, from Mary and Joseph to the last sheep, had taken at least three bows.

Afterwards, Anne and Gilbert tidied the front hall-one of the reasons they had been able to rent the theater so cheaply. They were the last two left-Susan had taken Joy home, and the rest of the cleaning crew had finished with the auditorium. That left Anne and Gil, sweeping up the pine-and-mistletoe-festooned room. Anne was floating a solid two inches off the ground, humming Christmas carols and sweeping up gingerbread crumbs.

"I still can't believe we did it," she repeated. "It was magical!"

"I couldn't believe it when I saw you up there," Gilbert said. "I thought you weren't performing, and yet there you were, in a wings and a halo."

"It was entirely unintentional, I assure you," Anne shook a last dustpan full of crumbs into the rubbish bin. "And that's the last of it, I think," she looked around, taking in the room that was cleaner now than it had been that morning. She picked up her coat and buttoned it up to her neck, wrapping a green scarf around her throat. As she was about to open the door, she felt a hand on her arm. She turned back to face Gilbert, but he wasn't looking at her.

Instead, he was looking at a point above their heads: a bunch of mistletoe hung from the ceiling directly above them. Anne looked from the green leaves back to Gilbert, her lips parting as understanding dawned. Slowly, as if afraid she would bolt, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

After he pulled away, she looked at him, that damnable look on her face, the one that had him proposing to her in the Patty's Place orchard all those years ago.

Silence stretched out between them, until he broke it. "Do you need a ride home?" he asked, his voice still slightly husky. "I'd be happy to…"

"Oh, no-no," she shook her head quickly. "I actually got an earlier ticket on the train to Bright River. My bags are already at the station-I'll be at Green Gables tonight. Tell Joy I said Merry Christmas, and...and…"

With that, she rose up on her toes and kissed him hastily, missing his mouth completely and hitting him somewhere on the chin, before disappearing into the night.

* * *

Anne stepped off the train at Bright River later that evening, the moon rising in the East, casting its silvery glow, shrouded in a bridal veil of mist, over the surrounding countryside. Anne took her smaller bag-the carpetbag that had accompanied her on her first trip there, and set off over the moonlit fields towards Green Gables.

She hummed a carol she had heard from an old woman on the street in Bolingbroke as a child.

 _I wonder as I wander out under the sky,_

 _How Jesus the Savior did come for to die._

 _For poor on'ry people like you and like I..._

 _I wonder as I wander out under the sky.**_

Over the next hill, Green Gables rested, and _over it, in the stainless southwest sky, a great crystal-white star was shining like a lamp of guidance and promise.***_

Suddenly, she felt as though she _must_ get there as quickly as possible. Slipping and sliding down the snowy hillside, she arrived at the back door of Green Gables all out of breath, her knock one of near-desperation.

In the Green Gables kitchen, Marilla heard the knock at her back door, and both she and Mrs. Rachel stood.

"I wonder who it could be at this hour?"

"Don't open it, Marilla! It's bound to be someone come to murder us in our beds!"

"For heaven's sake, Rachel, we aren't even _in_ our beds." With that, Marilla threw back the bolt, allowing Anne, carpetbag and all, to tumble into the kitchen.

"Anne Shirley, you will be the death of me! Why-what are you doing here? I thought you were coming tomorrow!" Marilla couldn't conceal her joy at seeing Anne-no matter how hard she tried.

Anne threw herself into her arms. "Oh, Marilla-I just wanted to come home all of a sudden. I took the earlier train, and I walked-my other bag's still at the station. Oh, Marilla, I'm home! I'm _home!"_

* * *

* _Anne of Ingleside_

** _I Wonder As I Wander-_ this old Appalachian carol was only recorded in 1933, but it's much older than that, passed down orally through the generations. So it's entirely possible that, in this AU, it managed to make its way North, to Nova Scotia, where Anne heard it.

*** _Anne of Green Gables_

 ** _Mistletoe, mistletoe-truly a gift to the at times unimaginative author. But there, the deed is done; and now we can get on with Christmas at Green Gables!_**

 ** _Happy Holidays!_**

 ** _Anne_**


	13. Girl Talk

Anne woke up to the sun streaming through the East Gable window. It was obviously later than she was accustomed to rising, but after the previous day's excitement, followed by her moonlit trek across the fields, she decided that she had earned this lazy morning. The smell of pancakes drifted up the stairs, along with the clatter of dishes and the odd snatch of conversation.

A glance outside told Anne that Davy had already been hard at work that morning: a set of fresh tracks went to and from the barn, and a large pile of split wood sat in the yard. The cold was as intense as Diana had described it-the frost on the window and the large amount of ready wood proved it. But thanks to Davy's wood splitting and Mrs. Rachel's deathly fear of drafts, the inhabitants of Green Gables were quite snug in their snow-capped house.

Anne swung her legs out of bed and onto the rag rug next to it, dressing hurriedly-just because it was warm inside did not necessarily mean it was comfortable to walk about in one's nightclothes. She passed Dora on her way downstairs, hard at work dusting the bannisters. She appeared in the kitchen to see Marilla and Mrs. Lynde cutting out baking powder biscuits, sending them into the oven as quickly as they could pull a pan out.

"Good morning, Rachel! Good morning, dearest of Marillas!" she gave each lady a kiss on the cheek before pinching a fresh biscuit out of the pan, narrowly avoiding a slap across the fingers from Marilla.

"Goodness, are we expecting company?" she asked, spreading a layer of butter and strawberry preserves onto the biscuit, taking her first sinful bite of the flaky layers with their strawberry and butter covering. "Oh, Marilla, I think the thing I missed most in Glen St. Mary was your cooking. Try as I might, I can never get my biscuits to taste like yours." Of course, she thought it was also the biscuits coupled with the joy at being home that enhanced the flavor so.

"For your information, we _are_ expecting company this afternoon. The Reverend and Mrs. Allen are coming to tea. They wanted to see you again, and I told them you were coming today. Little did I know that you'd take it into your head to go hiking across the fields and get here yesterday." This mild scolding was Marilla's way of telling Anne she loved her.

"Well, I'm going to take another hike today, Marilla," Anne announced. "I'm going to go pay a call on Diana and my two godchildren-imagine: me, a godmother! And I promise I'll be back in time for tea, too."

"You will do no such thing." This sentence escaped the lips of both ladies simultaneously.

"You'll catch your death of cold!" This reasoning by way of Mrs. Lynde.

"You will take the sleigh." This was offered by Marilla. "I'll have Davy drive you there, and then out to Bright River to pick up your bag. He can pick you up this afternoon-and you'll _definitely_ be back in time to greet the Allens."

* * *

The merry jingle of the sleigh bells rang out and slowly quieted as the horses were stopped at the Wright's door. Anne hopped down, landing on the packed snow. "Thank you, Davy-boy. You'll pick me up at three, then?"

"Three," he agreed, turning the horses back towards the main road.

Anne made her way towards the door, which opened, revealing a woman with raven black hair, rosy cheeks, and a plump figure showing a noticeable bump. "Who is it? I thought I heard some-oh! Anne!" she squealed in delight, rushing out to wrap her in a hug. "How on Earth did you get here so soon? I thought your train arrived in an hour!"

"I walked," Anne grinned.

A befuddled look crossed Diana Wright- née Barry-'s face. "From Glen St. Mary? Not even you could-"

"From the station, silly!" Anne kissed her soundly on the cheek. "I took an earlier train last night, and had a lovely moonlit stroll across the fields."

"Knowing you, a lovely moonlit tumble," Diana chuckled, familiar with Anne's escapades. "But come inside-we'll freeze to death out here, and I don't want to leave Fred and Little Anne unattended too long."

In the warm, cozy kitchen of the Wright homestead, the two divested themselves of a shawl in Diana's case, and a large coat and two scarves in Anne's. Turning back from the coat peg, Anne finally got a good look at Diana's profile.

"Diana...you aren't-" she waved a hand euphemistically, "again?"

"I am!" Diana turned from the stove, smiling broadly. "The doctor says I'm due in May-oh Anne, it was so hard not to send you a letter, but I so badly wanted to surprise you!" She scooped up little Anne Cordelia and cuddled her to her bosom before passing her off to Anne.

Anne reached out automatically, her childhood reasserting itself as her mind tried to process the information it had just been handed. Diana-expecting _again_? Anne was distracted by a loud banging coming from upstairs.

Diana, on the other hand, was unperturbed. "Oh, that's just little Fred. I gave him some pots and a spoon to keep him busy. He'll be up there for hours-it grates the nerves after a while, but at least it saves me from running after him constantly." She eased into a chair, stretching out her back. "Fred wants me to hire someone to help around the house, and I am quite seriously considering it. I mean, it was fine when it was just Fred and myself, and then little Fred. It was a bit hectic once Anne Cordelia came along, but we've gotten that down, I think. But I just don't know if I can manage two children and a baby."

"If Fred's offered," Anne said philosophically, doing her best to ignore the cacophony from the upstairs, "then take him up on it. He knows you, Diana-better than anyone, I dare say-and if he thinks you need help, he may be right."

"Oh, he is," Diana flapped a hand, "it's just, well, it's a matter of pride. After all, my mother didn't go hiring someone new anytime things got to be too much for her."

"Diana." Anne looked at her seriously. "This may have escaped your notice, but you are not your mother. You may have also forgotten that your mother had a housekeeper _and_ a maid. You have neither."

The banging from upstairs went suddenly, ominously still. Both women slowly looked up at the ceiling, waiting for it to begin again. When it didn't, Diana sighed and stood. "It's always when they get quiet that you have to worry," she made her way towards the stairs. "They're fine as long as you can hear them, but the minute they stop-that's when they're up to something."

* * *

Diana appeared some minutes later with a very red, slightly less chubby than Anne remembered, but still quite dimpled Fred Wright, junior. "There she is," she cooed to the boy on her hip. "Your aunt Anne's come to visit."

Little Fred squirmed to be let down, and once liberated, toddled over to his "Aunt Anne".

"Aunt Nan." he held up his chubby arms.

"Hello, handsome," she balanced Anne Cordelia on one knee as she scooped him up. "Well, haven't you grown since I last saw you! I think you're going to be ten feet tall someday."

"Now with Fred and me as parents," joked Diana. "We're both of us plump and short and roly-poly-and unless the Wrights have some hidden traits towards height, he's going to be that way, too."

"Well, he couldn't be handsomer," said Anne, blowing him a raspberry on the cheek, delighting in his baby-giggles. "Diana, I can see now that someday, these two adorable specimens will be able to convince you to do anything, just by batting their eyes."

"Oh, I'm hoping to become immune to their charms before it comes to that," Diana laughed, "but I have a feeling I never will."

"...And you'll come spend the night on Wednesday, then?" Diana asked as Anne got into the sleigh at three o'clock promptly.

"I most certainly will, O Mrs. Wright. We'll pretend to be schoolgirls, laughing about the boy's latest antics, you can moon over Fred, and I can firmly deny the existence of one Mr. Blythe."

"Speaking of which," Diana's voice was drowned out by the sleighbells, "have you seen much of-" the sleigh turned towards the main road again, leaving her standing in front of her house, waving at the driver and passenger of the sleigh, who waved gaily back.

Oh, well, she thought, watching them disappear around the bend. Time enough for _that_ vein of questioning on Wednesday.

* * *

"So, Anne," Mrs. Allen looked across the table at her former Sunday-school pupil, "how do you find principalship?"

"It's not all that different from being a teacher-although that may be because we've been short a teacher all semester and I've had to step in," Anne laughed. "It's a bit hectic, I'll grant you that, but the familiarity is comforting. I'll be a lady of leisure if they ever find a new teacher-I probably won't know what to do with myself."

Reverend Allen joined in with, "I'd say something about the bread of idleness, but I never discuss business at the table," his eyes twinkled merrily. "Anne, how is the Glen parish? Is the congregation welcoming?"

"Some are, some aren't, some towards outsiders, and some towards themselves," said Anne cryptically, remembering her visit with Miss Cornelia. At her companion's confused looks, she recounted her afternoon with the lady, and her low opinion of both Methodists and men. "If you're a Presbyterian, _be_ a Presbyterian," she quoted, smiling.

"I might visit you," Reverend Allen considered, "just to be able to meet this formidable Miss Bryant."

"And the first thing she'd tell you, Reverend Allen, is that the name is 'Miss Cornelia'. But you've got one thing in her favor-you're not a Methodist!"

* * *

Wednesday evening rolled around, and Anne arrived at the Wright place with a hamper of Marilla's baking in tow.

"If you're going to act like schoolgirls, you might as well have the sustenance for it," she'd said, handing her the groaning basket. "There's a bottle of raspberry cordial-I'd have packed currant wine, but Diana shouldn't have any, and there's no point in having you drink it alone."

Anne kissed Marilla's withered cheek, then hefted the basket-the weight balanced by her carpetbag in the other hand-and went to meet Fred, sent to come fetch her in the sleigh.

At the Wright's, Diana greeted them with open arms, then shooed Fred upstairs to bathe and tuck in both children. She sent Anne to the spare bedroom to change into her nightgown, while she changed into hers. They met again in the parlor, took one look at each other-and burst out laughing.

"Oh, Diana," gasped Anne, "you look exactly the way you did when you were twelve!"

"And you don't," Diana held herself upright on the back of the sofa, her ribs aching, "but I assure you, that nightgown makes you look at least eighteen!"

"Well, I think eighteen's still better than almost twenty-eight, as Mrs. Lynde would take pleasure in telling me," Anne settled down onto the soft couch, unpacking the hamper from Marilla. "Now, let's see what we have here…" she announced various items as she pulled them out, "spice cake, roast chicken, oranges, sugar cookies, and…" she held up a crystal bottle, light glinting in its ruby depths, "raspberry cordial."

"You're sure?" Diana asked, looking at it dubiously. "Not currant wine?"

"Quite certain," Anne unstoppered the bottle, stuck her finger in, and licked it off. "Definitely raspberry." She poured them each a generous tumblerful. "Now," she handed a glass to her friend, "talk. How have you been?"

"Aren't I supposed to ask that?" Diana sat at the opposite end of the couch and put her feet up next to Anne's. "In all seriousness, Anne, life in Avonlea is as it's always been. Quiet, peaceful-with the odd bit of gossip to keep it from becoming too sleepy. Just the way I like it-I was never as adventurous as you. And speaking of adventures," she deftly turned the conversation around, "how's Glen St. Mary?"

"Well played, Mrs. Wright, well played," Anne raised an eyebrow. She had known Diana long enough to recognize her conversational style. "Glen St. Mary is beautiful, Diana. It's right on the sea, and I can go down to the beach whenever I want-the freedom of it all! You can hear the sea wherever you are, and I have a stand of poplars around my house that, if the wind is right, makes the most mysterious, heavenly sound." Her eyes were rapturous as she told of her little house of dreams.

"That's nothing I couldn't have gotten out of one of your letters, _Miss Shirley_ ," Diana teased. "How are the people?"

"Why do I get the feeling that you are asking about one particular individual?" Anne rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her cordial. "I'll even spare you the asking of it: Gilbert Blythe is as he's always been-kind, witty, gentlemanly, chock full of brains, handsome-although if you ever repeat that one, I _will_ hunt you down. He still has as high an opinion of himself as ever-actually, no, he doesn't. He's become...quite grown up." A pensive look stole across her face as she remembered Gilbert, in all the ways she had seen him that fall.

"So have you…" Diana let the sentence hang suggestively.

"Diana Barry, what exactly are you implying? The man is- _was_ -married!"

"And Mrs. Lynde _did_ always predict you'd marry a widower…"

"Diana, I will say this once, and only once," Anne drew breath, "Gilbert Blythe and I are good friends, and pigs will fly before either of us considers marriage."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Diana giggled, feeling deliciously free and unconstrained.

"Diana! Am I never to convince you of this? Just because he kissed me does _not_ mean that-"

"He what?"

Anne cradled her head her hands with a soft moan, cursing gently under her breath. "You did not hear that."

"I most certainly did. He did what?" Diana was now leaning forward, looking at her friend raptly.

A mulish look met her. "On Saturday evening, Gilbert Blythe kissed me. There was mistletoe, and, well honestly, he didn't have much of a choice, did he?" Anne flapped a hand to punctuate her sentence.

"A gentleman almost always has a choice, Anne," Diana gave her a look that little Fred could have told her meant 'trouble ahead.' "How about you?"

"Did I have a choice, do you mean? Of course I did! He gave me every opportunity to leave-it's not like he _forced_ me to-"

"That's not quite what I meant," Diana interrupted. "What I meant to say is, 'Did you kiss him?'"

Anne pressed her lips into a thin line.

"You _did!_ Oh, Anne!" Diana looked positively delighted.

"Diana, as I believe I may have pointed out previously, I am not marrying the man."

"And you're the one who said it, not me," Diana batted her eyes innocently.

Anne leaned back against the sofa cushions with a groan. "I can't win, Diana. I just can't win!"

* * *

They woke up the next morning sprawled on the sofa, having fallen asleep after continuing their conversation deep into the night. Fred had poked his head in a few times, only to have a cushion thrown at him by Diana the third-and last-time.

Anne stretched, working a kink out of her neck, pushing back the quilt that covered her. She still felt a twinge in her neck when she stood-no, she definitely was no longer as young as she used to be.

Still on the sofa, Diana cracked open an eye and yawned. "Well, I will be the first to admit that we probably should know better," she stood up, looking out the window at the snow covered fields-it had snowed again during the night, and the only tracks breaking the fresh powder were either Fred's or one of his hired boys'. "Our night of indulgence did me well, Anne," she turned back, "but I have a feeling it won't be repeated all too soon."

"I heartily agree, Diana-dear," Anne picked up her bag. "Now, you stay there, and I'll get dressed and see to little Fred and Anne Cordelia."

"You really don't have to," Diana protested, "you're my guest, for heaven's sake!"

Anne turned back at the door, a "don't cross me" look on her face. "I really don't, but then, what are godmothers for?"

* * *

Following the night at Diana's, the remaining days until Christmas went by in a flurry of baking and preparations. A few days before Christmas, Anne and the elder occupants of Green Gables were in the kitchen, rolling out dough for pies that would later go into Christmas baskets for neighbors. Their system was a simple one-Anne would roll it out, Mrs. Lynde would fill it, and Marilla would crimp it and put it into the oven.

This assembly-line allowed them to talk while their hands did the work-which in most cases wouldn't be so bad, but when nearly four months of catching up were in order-with Mrs. Rachel as head inquisitor-it could get decidedly uncomfortable.

The conversation-interrogation-had taken its various turns through Anne's students, the congregation in Glen St. Mary, the ongoing feud between Miss Cornelia and the Methodist preacher, until finally-

"Anne, are there any bachelors in the Glen?"

Anne's head reared up. Oblivious to the sharp motion and the blush slowly creeping across Anne's cheeks, Mrs. Lynde continued to heap mincemeat into pie shells. "Well?"

"A...few…Mr. Martin, Mr. Anderson, Mr. Murphy-but he's courting Miss Leigh, so I don't think he'll belong to the bachelor crowd for much longer," Anne said with forced calm.

Mrs. Lynde took her sweet time with her next question. "Doesn't Gilbert Blythe live in the Glen now? I heard he moved there a few years ago to take over his ageing uncle's practice."

As Mrs. Lynde slowed down, Anne sped up, rolling out the dough so quickly her fingers were a blur. "He does live there," she controlled her voice, doing an admirable job at keeping it still-only Marilla heard the slight catch in it, "in fact, his daughter is one of my pupils."

"He has a daughter?" Marilla looked up from her latest pie, surprised that living under the same roof as Rachel Lynde hadn't granted her this information, "I knew he married a girl in Toronto, but I didn't know he had a child as well."

"He does, as a matter of fact," Anne hung her apron on a hook by the door. "He was married to Christine Stuart-she was at Redmond with us, don't you remember? Now, you'll have to excuse me," she hurried towards the back door, "Davy and I are going to go pick a tree."

Both women watched the door swing shut. "Rachel, you've frightened the girl," Marilla chastised her.

"She's not a girl anymore, Marilla, and it's high time you realized it," sniffed Mrs. Rachel. "She should have been married to the Blythe boy long ago-Providence matched those two up the moment her slate cracked over his head."

"If Providence _did_ match them, you can trust Providence to keep with it," Marilla retorted, "perhaps you might take a leaf out of your own Good Book-"to every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven."* Trust the Lord to work everything out in His time."

Mrs. Lynde puffed out her ample bosom. "Don't you quote the Bible to me, Marilla Cuthbert-don't be forgetting that I learned my catechism before you did. Sometimes Providence needs a little help-"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen."**

"'The prudent hold their tongues,'*** Rachel Lynde."

And with that, the last word was had.

* * *

Meanwhile, at Windy Orchard, Esther Blythe cracked the seal on an envelope containing the following telegram:

Convinced Uncle D to fill in STOP Arriving 24th with Joy STOP

Love

Gil

She smiled, her eyes filling up. Her boy was coming home.

* * *

*Ecclesiastes 3:1

** Ephesians 4:29

***Proverbs 10:19

 **I'll admit it, I've always wanted to see Marilla and Mrs. Rachel throw the Bible at each other. I've had the idea for it floating around for some time, and I finally got to use it!**

 **At this point, the thank-yous I need to issue are in the dozens, and thanking you all would probably push the word count of this story into the 4,000s. Let's leave it at my still being slightly awed and very much honored that there are people out there who read and (this is what surprised me the most) actually seem to** _ **like**_ **my work.**

 **So thank you, thank you, you lovely people. Your comments and PMs seriously make my day.**

 **Obviously, the holidays are getting to me-I'm becoming sentimental, I think.**

 **Love to you all, and happy holidays!**

 **Anne**


	14. God Rest You Merry

The younger Green Gables folk woke early on Christmas Day, while the two elder ladies dearly wished for a slightly longer night's sleep.

"Oh, don't worry, Marilla," Anne reassured her on the upstairs landing, as the former looked out of her room with a resigned look on her face. "Take your time-I'll manage everything downstairs until you and Mrs. Rachel come."

"Thank you, Anne," Marilla gave her a tired look, having stayed up late to fill the twins' stockings. "I'll be down shortly."

"Take your time!" Anne skipped down to meet Davy, who was nearly hopping out of his skin at the bottom of the stairs. "Davy-boy, you will never grow up, will you?"

He grinned. "Prob'ly not."

"Well, at least we've established that Father Christmas doesn't exist," she chuckled. "Remember that Christmas? You spent most of it curled up in my lap, asking me if Milty Boulter was right." She laughed at the memory of the towheaded boy who had been desperate to hold onto the idea of Father Christmas. (The phrase, "Say it ain't so, Anne," had figured rather prominently that day.) "Come on, Davy, let's go make breakfast."

* * *

Two miles away, in his old bedroom at Windy Orchard, Gilbert Blythe lay in his old bed, his daughter attached to him like a barnacle. They had arrived late the previous evening, and after being fed and watered by his mother, they had been sent upstairs. Joy had firmly refused any accommodation other than Gilbert's, and the two of them had ended up sharing his old bed.

Gilbert slowly rolled over, dislodging his daughter, and then gently lifted her onto his chest, where she settled into the position both of them had often occupied when she was a baby-her sleeping, him usually reading.

Now, however, he just looked down at her, slightly cross-eyed at the nearness, and realized that if anyone had told him ten years ago that he would be lying in his bed at Windy Orchard with his daughter- _who was not Anne's_ -and feel perfectly content, he would have given a derisive snort and told them to go dunk their head in the bay.

But here he was, with Joy, and Anne _Shirley_ at Green Gables -he grinned. Maybe this would turn out to be a good Christmas, after all.

An hour or so later, he was woken up again by an insistent poking at his side.

"Papa. Papa!" A little voice whispered. "Papa- it's Christmas!"

He opened up one eye and found Joy's nose not an inch from his, her violet eyes sparkling with excitement. Gilbert sat up, swinging his long legs out of bed. "Indeed it is. Now, clothes first, then stockings-not the other way around," he reminded her.

"But it's so much more Christmassy to open presents in your nightgown," she tried to convince him.

"Christmassy or not, you will get dressed first," he informed her. "Your Grandmother Blythe is going to have my head if I let you go about barefoot."

With much grumbling and sighing, tempered by a good deal of Christmas-infused excitement, Joy pulled on her clothes while Gilbert went through his old closet, pulling out a shirt and a pair of his older wool trousers-a pair the moths had decided was unappetizing, judging from the lack of holes and large amount of lavender sachets decorating the cedar closet.

Five minutes later, the pair stepped out of the room, looking fairly put-together. At the top of the stairs, Gilbert bent down and picked Joy up, resting her on his hip, and the two descended the stairs in that fashion, before entering the kitchen.

* * *

Esther Blythe hadn't thought she would see her son smile this way again. He looked years younger now, even as he held the proof that he was no longer a college boy. She pulled the cake pan containing what Gilbert had always called "Christmas cake" as a child-really a spice cake with a thick coat of white icing on top. Even now, she could see his nose twitch at the smell filling the kitchen.

He put Joy down and came over to investigate. "Is that…?"

"It is," she nodded. "I mixed the batter last night, after you arrived. I thought you might like having this again." The air was squeezed out of her as he pulled her into a bone-crushing hug.

"Thank you, Ma," he whispered.

"You're very welcome, young man," she looked up into the hazel eyes so much like her own. "Now," she said, businesslike, wiping her hands off briskly to remove whatever imaginary traces of flour remained, "your father should be back any moment now-" the side door opened and shut, and she nodded in satisfaction. She knew her husband well. "...and then we can do our stockings while the cake cools. Come with me, darling," she held out her hand to Joy, who took her grandmother's hand readily, "let's go into the parlor!"

The parlor was indeed laid out in all its Christmas finery, with the tree covered in glittering tinsel and glass ornaments that seemed to glow in the early morning light. Gilbert's mother had always liked pretty things, and every year, a few more ornaments found themselves dangling off the tree branches.

Joy looked around in wonder. She had never spent Christmas anywhere other than Ingleside, where Christmas had been a decidedly quiet affair. Her afternoon with Miss Shirley had given her a taste of what other people did for the holiday, but to actually experience it herself was something else entirely. Her eyes lit on the four stuffed stockings hanging off the fireplace mantle-nearly splitting at the seams, all four of them. She looked up at her grandmother, who smiled, her eyes twinkling like her Papa's.

"The one of the far right's yours, darling."

With that, Joy scampered to the fireplace, taking down the stocking and sitting down right then and there to examine its contents.

Gilbert and his mother watched Joy going through her stocking, squealing in wonder when she found a nutcracker-and the large amount of walnuts scattered throughout the stocking, sniffing the orange nestled in the toe, and leafing excitedly through the book of fairytales.

"Ma, you shouldn't have," he whispered.

"Of course I should have," she hissed back. "You gave me nearly a week's notice-don't you think that I'd have made a fuss even if you'd have turned up unannounced?"

"A different kind of fuss, maybe."

Esther Blythe rolled her eyes. "And that is why we've never had to doubt that you are your father's son, you little tease. Really-the biggest present I've received is the two of you coming to visit. Now go," she nudged him, "open up _your_ stocking."

* * *

John Blythe watched his wife looking at Joy. Slowly, a crystalline tear rolled down her face, followed by another, and another, until she turned towards the kitchen, a steady stream of tears coursing down her face.

He followed her out of the parlor and into the kitchen, where watched her pull out a large tin of icing sugar, shaking about half its contents into a stoneware bowl. Coming to stand behind her, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, resting his chin on her head.

"It's hard, isn't it?"

A muffled sob was torn from her. "I knew it would be, of course," she said quietly, "I just didn't expect her to be so much like, like…" she trailed off, knowing her husband would be able to complete the thought.

"Like Charlotte."

"She'd be thirty-five now," Esther looked up at him. "Can you even imagine that? Married, with children-"

"-You can't be sure of that. She might have become a teacher."

"Don't interrupt. A mother can dream, can't she?" she swatted him on the arm, leaving a sugary handprint, and gave him a watery smile. "I love Gil, and I love little Joy more than a grandmother should, probably; but a part of me will always wonder what would have happened to Charlotte, John."

"So do I," he admitted. "I was amazed at how much Joy resembled Charlotte. She has her mother's eyes and hair-"

"-I never did like her. I tried, John, I really did, but she just looked at everything as though she were above us all."

"Don't interrupt," he tossed her words back at her, "She has Christine's eyes and hair, but otherwise, she looks exactly like Charlotte."

"I don't think Gilbert knows," Esther looked into the parlor, where the two sat in the rocker, looking at the fairytales.

"He wouldn't remember her," John shook his head. "He was just two."

"She loved him, though," Esther's voice shook as she remembered the bond the two siblings had shared. "And he knew that she was gone-remember how he cried?"

"For a week straight," John remembered. Baby Gilbert had been inconsolable at his sister's death.

"I've got to stop crying," Esther mumbled, turning her face into his shirt. "We'll end up with salty icing otherwise." She blew her nose and patted her eyes dry. "There," she stepped back, "how do I look?"

"Well…" John Blythe let his gaze slowly rake her from head to foot.

"There is a time and place for everything, _Mister_ Blythe," she informed him primly, "and this is not the one for whatever you had in mind."

"You go ahead into the parlor, _Mrs._ Blythe," she let herself be pushed out if the kitchen, "I'll finish the icing."

"You don't know how," she dug in her heels.

John shrugged eloquently. "I've watched you make it for thirty years. How hard can it be?"

She rolled her eyes. "Pride before the fall, dear. Pride before the fall."

That evening, after Joy had fallen asleep stretched out before the fireplace, Gilbert carried her to bed, her head drooping onto his shoulder as he made his way up the stairs.

As he tucked her into bed, her eyes fluttered open. "Papa?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Chirstmasses only get better every year, don't they?"

* * *

In her bedroom at Green Gables, Anne let down her hair, carefully brushing it out before braiding it into a coppery rope. This year's Christmas had been as good as any, she thought, but her heart gave a queer little thump when she thought about a certain two someones having their Christmas in Glen St. Mary. She wondered what could have- _would_ have happened if she'd stayed there for Christmas-or even taken a later train…

She curled up in bed with her two hot water bottles-courtesy of both older ladies-and looked out the window towards Windy Orchard, where a little light could be seen, winking through the night.

* * *

"Anne, you'll be taking this basket to the Blythes at Windy Orchard," Marilla handed her a large hamper the next morning, containing a mince pie, a quantity of gingerbread, a bottle of cider, and some of Mrs. Rachel's shortbread, whose recipe had been a carefully guarded Lynde family secret for several generations. Anne, however, had watched her make them, and was fairly certain that the secret was a few spoonfuls of finely ground cornmeal.

"I've sent Davy to the Boulter's with a basket already, and Dora's just starting for Orchard Slope," Marilla continued, tying a bow around the handle. "Rachel and I will probably take a few baskets to town later today, but we're going to tidy up Green Gables this morning."

Anne pulled on her boots, wondering if there was any irony in this. Here she was, on Boxing day, delivering a hamper to Gilbert Blythe's family. While the Blythes she really wanted to see where in Glen St. Mary. Yes, she decided, there was a bit of irony, if not a bit of poetic justice.

She picked up the hamper, and set off across the fields for the Blythe farm, with the spirit of Christmas following close behind.

Things were going similarly at Windy Orchard. Esther Blythe had dispatched her husband with a basket already, and was giving her son his last-minute instructions: "Now, this basket will be going to Green Gables. Make sure you don't drop it-and give my best to both Marilla and Rachel. Oh," a twinkle entered her eye, "and say hello to Anne for me."

Joy pulled at her skirt. "Can't I go?"

Esther picked her up and rested her on her hip, the way she used to with her children. "You are going to stay here with me, darling, and fill up the rest of these baskets. We'll go deliver one to Mrs. Wright later-she's an old friend of your papa's, too. And you can play with her two children-I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"But I want to see Miss Shirley!"

"All in good time, dear, all in good time. Besides, it's quite cold out there-I don't want you catching cold."

"Ma," Gilbert wound another scarf around his face, "colds come from the growth and spread of bacteria, not actually the cold."

His mother flapped a hand at him. "Explain that to your five-year-old self, who ended up in bed for a week after going barefoot in a rainstorm. Mother knows better-if not best, young man, and I never met a body who could go in this kind of weather without catching cold, and especially not a child. We'll take the sleigh later." Having had the last word, she pushed her son out the door, admonishing him to take the road instead of the fields, and turned to her granddaughter. "Now, darling, whose basket should we fill next?"

* * *

Anne came over the next rise, and made her way through the Blythe orchard before coming to a stop at the farmhouse's kitchen door. She knocked three times, the door swinging open as she lifted her hand to knock the fourth, revealing the figure of Esther Blythe.

"Mrs. Blythe," Anne smiled brightly, "Merry Christmas!" She handed her the basket, fully expecting the visit to be a quick one.

She did not expect to be pulled inside, assisted with her coat, and to be handed a steaming mug of tea. And she most certainly did not expect to see Joy, sitting in a corner with a marmalade-colored kitten in her lap.

"Joy?"

Gone was the kitten, unceremoniously spilled out of its comfortable perch as Joy leapt up and flew across the kitchen to wrap herself around her legs.

"Oh Miss Shirley, I wanted to go with Papa to Green Gables to see you, but Grandmother wouldn't let me, and now you're here and Papa's at Green Gables, so everything turned out fine."

"I should say so, but-" she looked up in confusion, "Gilbert's at Green Gables? I thought both of you were in the Glen."

Mrs. Blythe handed her a gingerbread man to go with the tea. "How did you come here, Anne? I would have thought you met Gilbert on the road."

"Oh, I took a shortcut," Anne sat down in the corner with Joy, "I came through the orchard."

"And I sent Gilbert by the road," Esther said.

The marmalade kitten, now having gotten over its insulting spill, returned with reinforcements-in the form of a little calico, who made itself at home in Anne's lap.

Joy's eyes were shining with delight, and the rest of her fairly glowed as well. "We came on the late train on Christmas eve, Miss Shirley. It was so exciting to see everything rush by that way, and to look out and see the lights…"

Her constant stream of words ebbed and flowed around them, while Anne remembered her own nighttime train ride, strangely numb, her lips still tingling. For once, the countryside had flashed by, unseen by her eyes. She stroked a finger along the calico kitten's back, bringing her back to the present. _Gilbert was here_. By some strange twist, he was here for Christmas.

She stood, spilling the kitten out of her lap with an indignant meow. "Well, Mrs. Blythe, I think I've quite overstayed my welcome. Thank you very much for your hospitality-I'll be on my way home now. If it's alright, I'll come back in a few days to visit with Joy."

Esther Blythe shook her head firmly. "No, you're not. You will stay right where you are, and wait for Gilbert to come home-he'll take you back in the sleigh."

"But really, Mrs. Blythe-"

"No buts, Anne. You'll wait. Nobody ought to be out in this cold, and besides, you might as well see Gilbert."

* * *

"I'm back," the back door opened, admitting a rather chilled, slightly disappointed Gilbert Blythe. Anne hadn't been at Green Gables - out delivering baskets, much like himself. His visit with the Green Gables women had been cut rather short upon the arrival of Davy, who had announced that the Boulters had experienced a minor mishap with their tree, which might have involved a pet bird getting too close to a candle. Gilbert had excused himself then, unwilling to stay for the details Mrs. Lynde was so obviously craving. He'd taken the shortcut across the orchard, taking a good half-mile off his journey, and arriving at his parents' home with his nose slightly numb, and the tips of his ears colder than ears had any right to be.

A sweet laugh caught the ears in question, sending his head turning with an audible _crack_. There, in the corner, with one of his mother's kittens in her lap - was Anne. Cuddled against her side with a kitten of her own was Joy, and all four of them-females and felines-were deeply engrossed in the book of stories Joy had received as a Christmas present.

"Look there," Anne pointed to a picture, "that witch looks exactly as I imagined she would: all gnarled and warty. She just _oozes_ cruelty, don't you-" she flipped the page, looking up as she did, and her sentence petered out, crawling back down her throat. "Gilbert," she mustered up a hesitant smile, standing to greet him. The kitten jumped from her lap, well used to this by now - it was its third spill of the morning, after all.

"Papa, Papa - guess what?" Joy popped off the floor like a piece of rubber, coming between them as she hopped up and down in excitement, "Miss Shirley said we were going to go for a rabble in a few days, if you'd let me. Please, Papa? Please?"

Awkwardness fled in the face of confusion. "A rabble?"

Anne smiled broadly, recognising the error in pronunciation. "A ramble, Gil. I promised to show her all of our old haunts."

He tried not to show how her easy use of her old name for him affected him, drawing on his many years of experience doing so. But those skills were rather rusty, after nearly a decade of nonuse, and a corner of his mouth still twitched. "I can't think of a single reason why you shouldn't, so...yes," he agreed.

"Excellent," Anne's eyes sparkled merrily, "I'll come for her the day after tomorrow, if that's convenient?" she tilted her head, waiting for an answer. When he nodded, she mirrored it. "Good. Now, I really should be going - Marilla will be worried if I don't appear soon," she looked around for her coat, only to find it dangling in front of her, held by Mrs. Blythe, who had watched the entire conversation from her end of the kitchen table. Oh yes, she thought, Rachel Lynde was right-Providence _had_ matched these two up...and darned if she was going to let them fall apart again.

"Gilbert, you'll take Anne home in the sleigh," she said in her most no-nonsense tone, making any refusal from either party out of the question. Providence might have matched these two, thought Esther Blythe, but sometimes Providence needed just a little help getting things done. After all, mother knew best.

* * *

The small sleigh skimmed over the snow, carrying its passengers towards Green Gables. Anne inhaled deeply, feeling the wind against her face-one simply did not get a wind like this anywhere but in Avonlea. Blame the wind-or the cold, which might have numbed whatever sense she had left, she turned to Gilbert, speaking up to be heard over the sleighbells.

"Isn't it marvelous?" her eyes shone above the line of her scarf. "Have you ever noticed the way snow smells, Gilbert? It smells so _clean_ -as though it were washing the world, readying it for another year."

Gilbert recognized this evasion tactic. He'd seen it many times - most memorably in the Patty's Place orchard. But there were things that had to be said.

"Anne," he slowed the horse, quieting the bells, allowing him to speak softly, "Thank you."

"What for?"

"Reminding me what Christmas is," he said simply. "If it weren't for you, I'd be in Glen St. Mary, dealing with whatever medical crises my dear patients always manage to come up with during the holidays. Instead, I'm here, driving you home after having spent my best Christmas in years - I should think that would warrant some thanks."

"None necessary, as I assure you it was entirely unintentional," her eyes lost their humorous glint, "but that reminds me - I came to Windy Orchard to wish you a merry Christmas - something I have yet to do. So, merry Christmas, Gil." She looked up at him earnestly.

 _Gil._ There it was again. "Merry Christmas, Anne-girl." Now, if he could just hold himself together until he dropped her off…

"Anne, what would you say to our going on a ramble of our own?"

Obviously, he couldn't.

Something unrecognizable flashed her grey eyes, large over the edge of her muffler. She pulled it down, puffs of steam escaping her lips as she spoke. "Well, Gilbert Blythe, I think I would like that very much."

They had arrived at the Green Gables gate at this point, and she climbed out of the sleigh, holding her skirts up and out of the way of her feet. "Oh, don't bother getting out, Gil-I think I can find my way inside," she teased him lightly, before turning and opening the gate. "And thank you for the ride-your mother really didn't have to insist so, but I am grateful, as it saved me some rather damp feet." With that, she turned and walked towards the veranda, her steps making small imprints in the patches of snow Davy had missed in his shoveling.

Gilbert remained at the gate, realizing only once she was halfway to the door that he had forgotten a rather important question. "Anne! When should I come by?"

She turned back, the afternoon sun catching a few hairs that had escaped her shawl. "What?"

"For our ramble-when should I come by?"

She thought for a moment. "Friday?"

"Friday it is," he sat back down and waited until the door was firmly shut behind her before signalling the horse to walk. At the bottom of the lane, the joy he had felt manifested itself in a deep laugh, coming from places he thought had long been closed off to the light and air. Giving a boyish whistle, he urged the horse to a trot, the merry jingle of the bells echoing his excitement.

Gilbert Blythe had a date.

* * *

 **I do believe Gilbert Blythe just asked Anne Shirley out on a date.**

 **And a very merry Christmas to you, Anne-girls! Let it be a restful one (I hope), and not spent eating large quantities of fish. I have nothing against fish, mind you, but everything in moderation. After the first five varieties of herring, things do become slightly tiresome.**

 **But in all seriousness-Merry Christmas. Joy to the world, peace on Earth, may your days be merry and bright…**

 **...and may all your Christmases be white, as Bing Crosby said.**

 **Anne**


	15. An Avonlea Ramble

Anne spent the twenty-seventh of December plowing through and replying to a large stack of Christmas letters. She started with a thick one from Japan-Pris had probably written it in early November for it to reach Green Gables at Christmas. The date, upon tearing open the envelope, confirmed it:

 _3 November, 18-_

 _Tōhoku,_ _Honshu_

 _Japan_

 _Dear Anne,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well-and curse the fact that mail to and from Japan is so very slow. I have the distinct feeling that this will reach you by, if not after, Christmas-so consider this my Christmas card to you. They don't have Christmas cards in Japan, or else I'd enclose one._

 _Patrick's ministry is doing well, and I think we'll be kept here for at least another two years. I don't mind; I've managed to learn a decent amount of Japanese, and what I don't know, I pantomime. That doesn't mean, though, that my linguistic adventures are entirely untroubled. I tried to ask for octopus at the market yesterday-Patrick's partial to it (although why he is, I shall never understand)-and the woman kept laughing at me. Finally, I pointed at the octopus, paid for it, and hied myself home, where I asked Patrick how to pronounce_ _octopus_ _in Japanese. After a good deal of laughter, my dear husband informed me that I'd asked the fishmonger to sell me a small child. It would appear that_ _octopus_ _in Japanese is 'tako', and not 'ko', as I'd asked for at the fishmonger's. So I think I'm going to content myself to a good deal of arm-waving and pointing in my future._

(five pages omitted)

 _Well, after hearing from me, you may be wondering if I'm thoroughly miserable, here in a country where I have very few friends, have trouble with the language, and request children instead of octopus. I suppose the only logical conclusion is that I love my Patrick, and as long as I've got him, I can bear even the strangest of cultures._

 _Merry Christmas, dear, and Happy New Year. I probably won't hear from you until February, but I'll be thinking of-and praying for (missionary's wife, you know)- you._

 _Love,_

 _Pris_

 _P.S. Say hello to Gilbert Blythe for me-he lives in Glen St. Mary now, doesn't he?_

Anne lay down the letter, rubbing the bridge of her nose tiredly. _Love_. Such a wonderful concept-but after four - no, _five_ botched proposals, if you could count the fishmonger in Halifax-her inner romantic was feeling rather bruised.

Shoving away her bleak thoughts, she put Pris's letter back in its envelope, and placed it of to the side, on the pile of read letters.

She slit open a letter from Kingsport, addressed in Phil's rather freespirited cursive. The letter fell out, along with a little picture filled with a child's scribblings.

 _Anne, honey-_

 _I couldn't decided whether to send this to Glen St. Mary or Green Gables - I ended up stabbing my pre-addressed envelopes with a hatpin, much like I do with my hats (you may have noticed the hole in the envelope). Jonas has probably despaired of having a wife who can make up her mind by now...but I'm fairly certain he loves me anyways. I'm hoping you went home to Green Gables over Christmas, otherwise you'll be getting this letter around New Years (Happy New Year if you are)._

 _I simply couldn't decide what to do for Christmas this year - my parents issued their usual invitation to Mount Holly, but Jo has services on Christmas Eve and Day, and it wouldn't be fitting for the minister's wife to abandon him over Christmas. So I decided to invite my parents for Christmas - oh, Anne, what have I done? Now I'll have to decide all manner of things, from the food to the napkins, and goodness knows what else. Jo has no idea how to organize this, or I'd leave it to him...but we'd probably end up eating sandwiches, cross-legged on the parlor rug if he were in charge. He's working so hard on his sermons, that he barely has time to come up from his study._

 _Oh, I'm sorry-babbling on about all my problems. But I assure you, all is not that terrible. Little Jonah is leaning his alphabet (I'm going to try to get him to write you his own letter one of these days), and we've bought the house next door to the rectory-we're going to slap the two together, making one rather large house. Jonas and I had a long talk about it, and we've decided to start taking in some orphans from the slums, keeping them as our own, or until we can find families that will love them. There's also the small detail that I think I might be in the family way again...you'll be Aunt Anne twice over!_

(Long, scribbled line across paper, as if arm had been dragged across)

 _Drat - Jonah, bless his little four year old soul, decided that he was momentarily more important than you were. He's sitting on my lap now, squirming a little, making it a trifle difficult to keep writing._

 _Alright, little man, if you think you can do a better job than your mama at wishing your Aunt Anne a merry Christmas - go ahead. I give you the pen._

(Many scribbles, blots, and a child's fingerprint or two follow)

 _MERRY CHRISTMAS AUNT ANNE._

 _That, dearie, may be the first intelligible thing the little man's written - with a little help from yours truly. The sentiment is seconded by both myself and Jo - I'll give him the letter to sign later._

 _Love,_

 _Phil_

 _(and Jo)_

Anne giggled, clasping the letter to her chest. The Blakes could brighten anyone's day. She sent the letter to join Pris's, hesitating before she opened another one. She looked out the window, over the snow-covered fields, and the hills beyond.

She was the last one, she knew. Everyone else was either married or engaged to be. It wasn't that she minded-but for a girl to get to her age without a bit of romance entering her life…

She was almost twenty-eight-would be in March-and had exactly one proposal that had stirred up any emotion other than revulsion.

"Foolish girl," she pushed back her chair roughly. There was no point wanting what couldn't be had - that was why she dreamt up the most outlandish things as a child.

That way, there was no risk of being disappointed.

* * *

Anne knocked on Windy Orchard's door for the second time that week, and as before, was welcomed in with a cup of tea and a piece of gingerbread.

After visiting with Mrs. Blythe, Anne and Joy set out; Anne had edited her list of places to visit, realizing that Joy's shorter legs wouldn't be able to carry her. She had decided to start with the schoolhouse-after all, it was what had gotten her into this in the first place.

"This," she said, her voice echoing slightly in the empty room, "is where I went to school."

"Really?" Joy looked around in wonder. It was so much smaller than the one in Glen St. Mary.

"Your father came here, too, and so did Mrs. Wright-you've met her, haven't you?"

Joy remembered the plump, black-haired lady with the children she and her grandmother had gone to visit. She had enjoyed herself - although she thought Mrs. Wright spoiled her son a little.

"Miss Shirley," she looked up at her teacher, "did you _really_ crack a slate over Papa's head?"

Anne chuckled. "I most certainly did - the first day I met him. I was sitting…" she walked up the rows of desks, visualizing the scene in her mind, "...here," she pointed to a bench, "and Gilbert sat there," she pointed to another one. "He pulled my hair, called me 'Carrots', and _crack!_ went my slate, right over his head."

"Didn't the teacher get mad?" Joy's eyes were as large as saucers.

"Oh he most certainly did," Anne walked up to the chalkboard, picking up a piece of chalk and writing:

 _Ann Shirley has a very bad temper. Ann Shirley will learn to control her temper._

"Now of course, that was just adding insult to injury," she looked back, her eyes twinkling, "I've always been quite particular about the fact that my name is spelled A-N-N-E, not A-N-N, the way Mr. Phillips spelt it. And what did I do?" She turned back, picking up the chalk once more, adding a vicious 'e' after each 'Ann'. "Needless to say, Mr. Phillips was even less pleased. He wasn't the most popular of teachers here - he left at the end of that year, and was replaced by Miss Stacy. She made up for anything Mr. Phillips may have done - I'm very glad to have had her as my teacher."

"And who replaced her?" Joy asked.

Anne gave her an odd little smile. "I did."

* * *

"And this," Anne tipped her head back to look at the imposing edifice with _its two doors, an inside one and an outside one… six windows and a chimney...two ends and two sides_ *, " _this_ is the third-most important building in Avonlea. Would you believe me if I told you it was once painted blue?"

"No."

"Originally, we'd wanted it to be green with red trim, but somehow, everything got mixed up - and Joshua Pye did a very neat job of painting this building a _very_ bright shade of blue. I was mortified afterwards - after all, I'd pushed for the hall to be repainted; but how was I to know something would go so wrong?"

"It's not your fault, Miss Shirley," Joy patter her arm. "Besides, it could be worse - someone might have painted it bright yellow!"

Anne shuddered. "And how right you are. That's even worse than blue. Now, what do you say we make our way towards Green Gables? I'll show you the Haunted Wood."

"Is it really haunted, Miss Shirley?"

Anne looked up at the crisscrossing branches overhead, bare in their winter slumber. "I certainly thought so," she said, "But don't worry, I'm fairly certain that the only spirits here are friendly ones." She suppressed a small shiver, however, noting the sun disappearing over the horizon, casting them into gloom. Old habits died hard, and she quickened her step.

"Come on," she squeezed Joy's small hand, "We'll be at Green Gables in five minutes-and Marilla will have a pot of hot chocolate waiting for us. How does that sound?"

It sounded just fine to Joy, who didn't let go of Anne's hand until they were safe inside the Green Gables kitchen, with the promised pot of hot chocolate in front of them.

"And there you have it," Anne poured out two steaming cups, "you have seen what your father and I did during our communal childhood, heard how I can hold grudges, and how your father and I ultimately became very good friends."

"Why did you become friends, Miss Shirley?" Joy looked up at her curiously. She could understand how someone might want to become Papa's friend, but not after he'd called them names.

"Well, now," Anne looked down into her cup, thinking back to that day on Barry's Hill all those years ago, when she had finally allowed Gilbert Blythe to become her friend, "remember how I told you I taught school here in Avonlea?"

Joy nodded earnestly.

"I was actually supposed to teach school in Carmody. When Gilbert heard, he refused to take Avonlea, and made the school board give me what should have been his school. You see, Marilla would have sold Green Gables if I hadn't stayed with her-and he knew how much this place meant to me. He gave up his school so that I could keep my home.

"And that's when I realized that I had been treating him abominably for the past five years, when his only sin had been to try to get my attention in school. We were so alike that it was inevitable that we become friends at some point-I only delayed it by five years. But we became friends that day; I'd _thwarted destiny long enough"**_

* * *

Friday came, with a slight, although nearly imperceptible, warming of temperature. The sun shone brightly upon Avonlea, and a few animals had dared leave the safety and comfort of their nests, in search of food - or just sun.

Anne was up to her elbows in what her childhood self would have termed a "romantic cloud" of soapsuds, attempting to finish the dishes while dreamily looking out the window at a scarlet cardinal, sitting on the washline. His trills and whistles reached the kitchen, joining the sounds of dishes being washed and rinsed. Anne was so absorbed in her birdwatching that a third sound joining the mixture escaped her notice - sleighbells.

And so it was with complete surprise - and dare we say bewilderment? - that she opened the door to find Gilbert Blythe on the back porch.

"Oh, goodness gracious - is it two o'clock already?" she looked up at him, her eyes wide. Here she was, wrapped up in an apron, hands pruny and covered in soap-and he, well, _wasn't._

"Well, you come in," she stepped aside to allow him entry, hurriedly filling up the copper tea kettle and placing it on the stove, "make yourself a cup of tea while I go make myself slightly more presentable. Oh, and if Marilla comes in and asks why you're here, don't be surprised - I didn't tell her about our...plans. Either way, it's not her you should be afraid of; it's Mrs. Lynde you might guard yourself around."

And with that long, slightly roundabout, and all too telling monologue, she disappeared up the stairs, leaving a highly amused Gilbert in the kitchen.

Said Gilbert removed his coat, scarf and gloves, and settled down to wait for her.

Meanwhile, in her room upstairs, Anne stared at the contents of her closet, feeling slightly panicked. What, exactly, did one wear to go for a walk with an old friend?

The dark green wool dress, the blue sprigged, or the brown with the white lace collar…

A walk with an old friend...whom one had kissed.

The dark green wool or the blue?

An old friend whom one had kissed, who preferred the color green.

And that decided it. The green wool it was.

"Gilbert Blythe!" Mrs. Lynde's ample bosom preceded her through the kitchen door. "Well, I never expected to see you so soon. Is everything alright at Windy Orchard? Your mother's side always was poorly, so you can't expect much in this weather, but I certainly expected the Blythe constitution to hold up."

"Lovely to see you as always, Mrs. Lynde," Gilbert stood to greet her. "You mustn't worry-everyone is hale and hearty. Even my mother."

Mrs. Lynde recognized the look in his eye from earlier days, usually ones on which a younger version of the man in front of her had something hidden not too far up his sleeve, and decided to hedge her bets.

"And your daughter?" she asked, joining him at the table, pouring herself a cup of tea from the kettle Anne had put on earlier. "Joy, isn't it? She was so sweet when she came here the other day. She's rather like Anne, I noticed; although that's to be expected, since the girl's been taught by her for the past four months. You know, I'm mighty glad the child seems to have gotten the Blythe constitution, and not some sickly city one. Although maybe it's just the Island air - I did always think Island girls were healthier than their mainland sisters. Except for the Boyer family; I tell you, they were always down with some sort of complaint or other: the 'flu one week, the epizootic the next. But they could never just make up their minds to _die_. No, they had to malinger on for years until Myra - she was the middle girl - finally decided it was time for her to meet her Maker, bless her. The Boyers were real pious folk, you see, and they were always communing with the Lord in one way or another; asking his permission for one thing, thanking him for another. Might be that's what made them so sickly - too much of a good thing, after all. Oh, Anne - I didn't hear you come down!"

This last bit was directed at the former, who had come down sometime between Mrs. Rachel's breath before 'pious folk', and the one before 'too much of a good thing.' The only thing that gave the good lady a hint of her arrival was that Gilbert, who had been facing the doorway, had gone suspiciously cow-eyed, causing Mrs. Lynde to turn to look for what had caused this appalling lack of attention on his part.

Upon seeing Anne, however, she stopped, her sharp eyes taking in the green dress, the flushed cheeks, and the starry eyes, and her mind, already spying the next source of Avonlea gossip, put two and two together.

Well, good - it was high time Providence acted in respect to these two. Sixteen years really was too long.

* * *

"I brought the cutter this time," Gilbert held out a hand to help Anne into the smaller sleigh, "since it's lighter, Princess will have an easier time carrying us over longer distances."

"Longer distances, Gilbert? Where are we going, White Sands?" she teased him.

Gilbert got in on his side, spreading several layers of robes over them, and resting his feet gratefully on the hot bricks his mother had suggested he bring along. "Well, I have a feeling you had a list of places with you-we could compare lists, and then go from there. What have you got?"

Anne squinted against the glare from the bright snow. "Barry's Pond."

"The Lake of Shining Waters, you mean? Got that one."

"Barry's Hill."

"Haven't got that one - but it's close by."

"I've already shown Joy the schoolhouse, but I wouldn't be averse to going back."

"Let's start there, then."

Anne looked over at the boy - no, _man_ \- next to her. "Alright then, what's on your list?"

"We-ell," he gave Princess a little slack once they reached the open road, "most of the places on your list, but also Hester Gray's garden and the churchyard."

"Then let's away, since we've got," she made a mental tally, "five places to visit in an afternoon."

Gilbert flicked the reins against the horse's back, making her speed up her gait a little. "Onward, my lady. To the schoolhouse we go!"

* * *

"It seems different, somehow, visiting the school with you instead of Joy," Anne mused on their way from the building in question. "I suppose it's because we share so much history with it - Joy was more of a sightseer." After a few moments, she chuckled at a memory from that visit. "You know, she was quite shocked to know that I had indeed hit you over the head with the slate."

"I should hope so!" Gilbert said in mock-affront, "After all, she's only ever known me as a law-abiding citizen, innocent in all ways."

"Innocent," snorted Anne. "She was less shocked to hear that you had started it."

"Ah, well - they've got to grow up someday," he sighed philosophically. "Where to next?"

"The churchyard's closest," she could see the church steeple from their point in the road already. They arrived at the church in good time, tying Princess to a the rail outside before pushing against the wrought-iron church gate, as it creaked open infinitesimally. Once inside, Anne went directly to the Cuthbert plot, brushing the snow from the newest gravestone.

"Hello, Matthew," she whispered, "Merry Christmas - happy New Year. I hope you're having a good one in heaven. I'm sorry I haven't been to visit sooner, but you know how Marilla and Mrs. Lynde are during the holidays.

"I've met Gilbert Blythe's daughter - but you already knew that, didn't you? Angels always know everything, and I'm sure you're an angel now. I miss you, still-even if it's been more than ten years. You were the first person I can remember who loved me, Matthew. Oh, I know my parents did - I've read their letters - but it's nice to be able to remember, don't you think?"

As Anne carried on her whispered conversation with the gravestone, Gilbert slipped off to the Blythe plot, where he stopped in front of a small, snow-capped grave, newer than the others, although it had become slightly weathered over the years.

His visits over the years had become more infrequent, but he still made a point of visiting when he could. He felt closer to her this way, as if standing in front of her grave brought him closer to her spirit.

So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he didn't notice Anne stand up from Matthew Cuthbert's grave, and come over to stand beside him. Leaning forward, she brushed the snow off the small grave, as she had done with Matthew's, reading the inscription.

 _Charlotte Elizabeth Blythe_

 _July 17, 1857_

 _February 20, 1865_

"I was two when she died," Gilbert said softly, "but for those first two years, she was my very best friend. I sometimes wonder what we'd have become if she'd lived - if we'd stayed on as friends, or if we'd have devolved into the same sibling relationship others have. I'd like to think that we wouldn't have, but I suppose I'll never know."

Anne placed an arm around his waist, drawing him to her side as she leaned her head against his chest. "You will, one day. And until then, she's with Matthew, and I'm sure he's taking very good care of her. They're probably looking down on us and thankful for the fact that their days of dealing with minus twenty degree cold are over."

"Right you are," Gilbert smiled at the little grave. "You take good care of Matthew, you hear me?"

"And make sure he doesn't get any pipe tobacco on his wings," Anne added before they turned away.

"His wings?" Gilbert asked as they retraced their steps to the gate.

Anne smiled softly. "His angel's wings. Don't worry, Charlotte's got a set, too."

"She does?"

"Of course. All angels do."

* * *

"And now, milady, I present - the Lake of Shining Waters!" Gilbert drew to a stop at the bridge that crossed Barry's Pond, given its more romantic nickname by Anne sixteen years previously, during a season when it hadn't been covered in a good eight inches of ice. On the far end, some of the boys Davy's age - and possibly even Davy himself - skated around, playing a semi-serious game of hockey.

" _On either side the river lie_

 _Long fields of barley and of rye,_

 _That clothe the wold and meet the sky;_

 _And thro' the field the road runs by_

 _To many-tower'd Camelot,"***_

Quoted Anne. "If I live to be as old as Moses, I will never forget that day. I don't think anyone who nearly drowned would forget the day they were rescued."

"I do wish you could have seen yourself," Gilbert elbowed her in the ribs, "sitting there in the dory, dripping wet, shaking more with anger than cold."

"I'm sorry, you know," she looked up at him, slightly abashed, "for the things I said that day. You didn't deserve it-even less than I deserved nearly drowning."

"Oh, I think we're past that," Gilbert grinned. "We're friends now, and that's what matters."

They came over Barry's Hill then, Orchard Slope and Green Gables on one side, Windy Orchard on the other. Anne placed her hand on Gilbert's arm.

"Stop."

Princess and the cutter came to a slow halt, and she stood up to get a better view of the surrounding countryside. "This," she gestured to the spot they stood on, "is where we finally became friends."

"It only took us five years," Gilbert joined in, smirking.

"Hush, you," she laughed. "I realized that...if you were giving up your school for me, while I was still holding a five year long grudge against you _because of my hair_ , I was being more ridiculous than dignified. Besides, you were right. I _had_ thwarted destiny long enough." She sat back down. "There, you've humored me with Barry's Hill. Now let's go look at Hester Gray's garden. I can't wait to see what it looks like now."

* * *

"It's a pity there was so much snow that we couldn't even get in," mourned Anne as they drove away from the little garden. "Oh, well. Now I'll have an excuse to go back once it thaws," she added with characteristic optimism.

"Since we're one place short on our list now," Gilbert said, turning the horse back onto the road, "is there anywhere else you'd like to go haunt?"

"How about the White Way of Delight?"

"The White whatd'yacallit?"

A slight blush stained Anne's already rosy cheeks an even further shade of pink. "You may know it as Lover's Lane."

"It's on our way home," he agreed, "why not?"

Actually, he could think of a few reasons why not. But his remaining wits, much as those of Shakespeare's Benedick, had flown, taking his reasons with them.

"I first came through here with Matthew, when he came to take me home to Green Gables," Anne looked at the _glittering fairy arch**_ above them. "He told me it was called the Avenue-but I thought that was thoroughly unromantic, and immediately rechristened it. I later learned it was also called Lover's Lane, which appealed more to my romantic sensibilities, but I've always thought of this as the White Way of Delight."

"And I've always thought of it as Lover's Lane," Gilbert said softly, looking at her. _His hazel eyes deepened into darkness, his still boyish lips opened to say something of the dream and hope that thrilled his soul.****_

Anne met his gaze head-on now, without avoiding it as she had all those years ago. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she thought about all the things that had happened to them in the meantime-and that had led to them being there, at that exact moment.

Gilbert leaned down, stopping the barest centimeter away from her lips, as if waiting for permission. She nodded, the smallest tilt of a head, and suddenly, he was kissing her, sweetly, unhurrying, as if they had all the time in the world.

Almost seventeen years after she cracked her slate over Gilbert Blythe's head in the Avonlea schoolhouse, Anne Shirley was kissing him in Lover's Lane.

And there was no place she'd rather be.

* * *

* _Anne of Avonlea_

 _**Anne of Green Gables_

 _***The Lady of Shalott. Alfred, Lord Tennyson_

 _****Anne of the Island_

 _Note: I think I took Lover's Lane and the Avenue and turned them into the same thing-but for the purposes of my story, it was necessary. May LMM forgive me._

 ** _You know, I think I could just end this story right here. And at another time in my life, I might have._**

 ** _But it would seem that, with a little help from kslchen, I have discovered my evil authoress side. Because Anne and Gil's story isn't over yet, and I can see a storm looming on the horizon. Ah, the joys of writing-you can make your characters as cheerful or as miserable as you wish._**

 ** _It occurs to me that it's New Year's Eve (is it though? I'm writing this at 2:00 AM. it's a bit early for "Eve", don't you think?), so happy New Year! Have a lovely 2018, Anne-girls, and keep up the good work, all of you._**

 ** _See you next year,_**

 ** _Anne_**


	16. Enter Owen Ford

On a clear, cold afternoon a few days after New Year's, Anne hurried up the steps to her cottage, carrying her suitcase and humming softly to herself.

 _We twa hae run about the braes,_

 _And pou'd the gowans fine;_

 _But we've wander'd mony a weary fit,_

 _Sin' auld lang syne._

 _For auld lang syne, my dear,_

 _For auld lang syne._

 _We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,_

 _For auld lang syne. *_

There was nothing like an Avonlea Christmas, but she had missed her little cottage by the sea. Fumbling the keys slightly in her thick gloves, she finally managed to unlock the door, pushing it open, into a marginally warmer house, where she found a large pile of mail acting as a sort of doorstop.

The gas and coal bills - _Happy New Year to me_ , thought Anne - several cards from students and their parents, yet _another_ letter from the Rollings Reliable Baking Powder Company - Anne tore that one in half straight away. She would use it later to start the fire in the kitchen. And at the bottom of the pile, a letter from the school board.

A rather official-looking one.

Anne decided to wait until she had lit her fires and made a cup of tea before opening that one. It was never a good idea to open business letters when one was half-frozen.

Half an hour later, having put off opening the school board's letter by lighting all three fires, the kitchen stove, _and_ the boiler in the basement, Anne slowly sat herself in her wing chair, fingering her silver letter opener.

She told herself it was like lancing a boil-best to get it done quickly. She sliced open the envelope, and a single sheet of paper floated into her lap.

 _Dear Miss Shirley,_

 _We regret to inform you that one of your teachers, Miss Juliet Crawford, will no longer be teaching at Glen St. Mary School, having secured a post in one of the Western provinces. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause, especially mid-year._

 _However, we have already engaged a new teacher, a Mr. Owen Ford. He will arrive on January 7th, and as principal it is your duty to make sure he is picked up from the station and settled in a reputable boarding house. You may interview him at your earliest convenience._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _M. Harris_

 _Director, Glen St. Mary School Board_

Well, wasn't that charming? Miss Crawford hadn't even had the decency to tell her that she was going West, and here she was now, with a new teacher halfway through the school year. "As principal, it is your duty to make sure that he is...settled in a reputable boarding house?" She snorted. That was his own business, or at most the board's - just not hers. Well, she'd ask Leslie Moore if she could take in a boarder. Leslie would be glad for the money, and Mr. Owen Ford would be well taken care of.

But still - a new teacher halfway through the year! Still, she supposed, that was better than no teacher halfway through the year.

Anne rubbed her temples, and decided to put the worries off further. Besides, the school board already seemed to have taken care of the replacement.

Now, she only had to figure out how to keep her teachers from leaving.

* * *

"Leslie, dear," Anne stood in the grey house's large kitchen, "I've found you a boarder."

Leslie stopped scrubbing the pan in the sink, her blue-black dress spattered with soapsuds, and looked up. "A what?"

"A boarder. You know, someone who lives with you and pays good money for it." Anne's eyes twinkled at her friend's expression. "He's the new teacher at the Glen school. Miss Crawford up and left us to go West, and he was apparently the first replacement the school board could find mid-term," she watched her friend stiffen slightly, and continued hurriedly, "they asked me to find him a reputable boarding house, and you're about as reputable as they come."

"Anne," Leslie went back to scrubbing the life out of her pan, "I don't take in men. It isn't respectable."

"But you're a widow," desperation colored Anne's voice now. "It's perfectly respectable for widows to take in men!"

"Not _young_ widows, Anne!" Leslie dropped the pan onto the drying board with a resounding _clang_. It echoed around the kitchen, punctuating her sentence.

"Leslie," Anne said quietly, injecting some patience into her voice, "Dick Moore has been gone some ten years. I hardly think that makes you a _young_ widow. Besides - and pardon me for having to stoop to this - you could use the money."

"Take that back, Anne Shirley," Leslie said hotly. "I do _not_ need the money." Her cheeks matched the crimson silk flower pinned into her hair. She turned back to the sink, plunging her hands into the soapy water.

At that moment, a strong gust of wind rattled the house. A clatter came from the roof, and the two women watched as, almost as though moving in slow-motion, a flight of shingles tumbled off the roof, falling slowly past the kitchen window before dropping into a snowdrift outside.

Leslie pressed her lips into a thin line before bracing her arms against the counter and turning back to her friend with a resigned half-smile.

"All right; tell me his name."

* * *

On Sunday afternoon, Anne and Miss Cornelia stood on the station platform, waiting for the chronically late Sunday train. Originally, it had been only Anne who was to pick up Mr. Ford. But Miss Cornelia had heard the news at church that morning, and insisted on coming along, both for propriety's and gossip's sake.

And so they stood on the platform, shivering slightly, as the plume of smoke wound its way closer, until finally the train puffed its way to a stop in front of them. A thin trickle of passengers disembarked-not many people traveled on a Sunday.

Miss Cornelia spotted him almost immediately. "Oh, there he is, Anne dearie," she pointed to a tall, broad-shouldered man, _with thick, brown hair, finely-cut nose and chin, and large and brilliant dark-gray eyes**_ , glittering above a thick, red scarf. "Now that, Anne dearie, is a very well-looking man indeed."

Anne silently agreed with her. Grinning at his confusion as he looked around the platform - so very much like her own when she had first arrived, she waved. "Mr. Ford!"

He turned, and his eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he took in the two women who were apparently his welcoming committee.

It quickly became apparent to Anne that Mr. Ford had no idea who they were. She put out her hand for him to shake. "Welcome to Glen St. Mary, Mr. Ford. I'm Anne Shirley-principal of the school, and this," she indicated Miss Cornelia, "is Miss Cornelia Bryant." She purposely left Miss Cornelia's role in all this rather vague. "Mrs. Moore, whom you'll be rooming with, is waiting for you with supper. She's an excellent cook, so I'm sure you'll be quite at home," she hoped that this wasn't entirely a fib, as the idea of anyone being "quite at home" with Leslie required some imagination.

"I assume you have some trunks?" she asked.

Mr. Ford smiled slightly. "I had them sent separately. I have a suitcase with me," he gestured to he one at his feet, "and my trunks should arrive sometime during the next week."

Anne nodded. "I'll tell the stationmaster where to have them sent," she excused herself.

As she disappeared inside the station house, Mr. Owen Ford felt a sharp gaze on him. Looking down, it became apparent that he was being subjected to the scrutiny of Miss Bryant.

Well, thought Miss Cornelia, what was on the outside was apparent, and quite nice to look at. But what was inside, well, only the good Lord who made him knew _that_.

* * *

"Anne dearie," Miss Cornelia piped up as they were driving up the road towards the grey house, "I'm finding myself a mite chilled. If you don't mind dropping me off at the next corner, I'll take myself home to my tea."

Miss Cornelia was duly dropped off, and Anne and Mr. Ford continued their trip to Leslie Moore's.

"So, Mr. Ford," Anne asked him, "how did you come to be selected for the new post?" The school board had, after all, asked her to interview him, and this seemed to be as good a time as any.

"Well," Mr. Ford looked over at her, slightly abashed, "I was a writer before I was a schoolteacher. When it became apparent that I was _not_ to write the next great Canadian novel, I worked as a substitute teacher in Charlottetown, and then Kingsport. There was an advertisement in the paper looking for a teacher to take over at Glen St. Mary, of all places, and I wrote the board as soon as I could. They deemed me suitable to take the post, and here I am."

"You're a writer, then?"

"I hope you won't hold it against me," he answered.

Anne smiled merrily, a smile which most people couldn't help but like. Owen Ford certainly couldn't. "Not at all! I was a writer for some time, and I still publish a few little things here and there. Now," said she, looking at her companion, "you said, 'Glen St. Mary, _of all places_.' I assume there's some sort of story there."

Owen For looked _around him with eager, interested eyes. "I have an odd feeling of coming home. My mother was born and spent her childhood here, you know. She used to talk a great deal to me of her old home. I know the geography of it as well as of the one I lived in, and, of course, she told me the story of the building of the house, and of my grandfather's agonised watch for the Royal William. I had thought that so old a house must have vanished years ago, or I should have come to see it before this."_

 _"Old houses don't vanish easily on this enchanted coast," smiled Anne. "This is a `land where all things always seem the same'- nearly always, at least. John Selwyn's house hasn't even been much changed, and outside the rose-bushes your grandfather planted for his bride are blooming this very minute."_

 _"How the thought links me with them! With your leave I must explore the whole place soon."_

"My _latch-string will always be out for you," promised Anne. "And do you know that the old sea captain who keeps the Four Winds light knew John Selwyn and his bride well in his boyhood? He told me their story the night I came here-the third bride of the old house."_

 _"Can it be possible? This is a discovery. I must hunt him up."_

 _"It won't be difficult; we are all cronies of Captain Jim. He will be as eager to see you as you could be to see him. Your grandmother shines like a star in his memory. But I think Mrs. Moore is expecting you. I'll show you our `cross-lots' road."**_

They came around another bend in the road then, the horse's breath clouding the air in front of them. Up ahead, the grey house looked out over the sea, all but a few of its windows dark.

"That's the Moore house," Anne pointed it out, "I promise that it's quite comfortable, and that Mrs. Moore," she forgave herself the little fib, "will be pleased to see you."

 _As they entered the yard Leslie came out on the veranda from the side door, peering through the gloom for some sign of her expected guest. She stood just where the warm yellow light flooded her from the open door. She wore a plain dress of cheap, cream-tinted cotton voile, with the usual girdle of crimson. Leslie was never without her touch of crimson. She had told Anne that she never felt satisfied without a gleam of red somewhere about her, if it were only a flower. To Anne, it always seemed to symbolise Leslie's glowing, pent-up personality, denied all expression save in that flaming glint. Every exquisite curve of her form was outlined in soft darkness against the light. Her hair shone in it like flame. Beyond her was a purple sky, flowering with stars over the harbor.**_

Anne heard her companion gasp.

 _"Who is that beautiful creature?" he asked._

 _"That is Mrs. Moore," said Anne. "She is very lovely, isn't she?"_

 _"I-I never saw anything like her," he answered, rather dazedly. "I wasn't prepared-I didn't expect-good heavens, one doesn't expect a goddess for a landlady ! Why, if she were clothed in a gown of sea-purple, with a rope of amethysts in her hair, she would be a veritable sea-queen. And she takes in boarders!"_

 _"Even goddesses must live," said Anne. "And Leslie isn't a goddess. She's just a very beautiful woman, as human as the rest of us._ " One look at him told her that he was that close to falling out of the sleigh, so she decided to enlighten him a little before he became too addled to process information. "Leslie's husband," she watched his head rear up almost comically at that, "died in Cuba almost ten years ago. She's taken care of herself ever since, taking in boarders and doing most of the work on the farm herself. _It isn't altogether pleasant, you know_."**

" _What a shame it all is! Her life must be a hard one."_

" _"It is. But she doesn't like to be pitied."**_

They stepped down from the sleigh and into the crunching snow, entering the circle of light that haloed Leslie Moore.

"Mr. Ford," _she greeted him with cold civility_. "Won't you come in."

They entered the house, the negligible warmth offered by the stove washing over them. Leslie led them into the parlor, where the bags were set down, and she turned back to her new houseguest. "Your room is ready for you, Mr. Ford, as is your supper. You may choose which you would like to see first."

Owen elected to see the room first, and followed Leslie up the stairs with his valise. Anne remained below, and after ascertaining herself that all was well, and that neither party would kiss or kill the other, left for her own little house.

And so it was that _Owen Ford was installed as an inmate of the old house among the willows.**_

* * *

* _Auld Lang Syne,_ Robert Burns

** _Anne's House of Dreams_

 ** _Hello, I am back! I'm late in posting this-for two good reasons: firstly, I started another story (Downton Abbey fanfic, if you must know.) And secondly, I'm finishing a run of a show I'm in. And then rehearsals for the next two start on Tuesday, so I am going to be...busy. Just warning you, in case it ever looks like I've dropped off the face of the Earth. But the story continues, and I can promise clouds ahead for Anne and Gil. Mostly Gil._**

 ** _By the way, don't be disappointed that a certain hazel-eyed doctor hasn't made an appearance in this chapter. The stage is being set, and he is currently blissfully ignorant of any perceived competition._**

 ** _Anne_**


	17. A Muddle

"Papa, we have a new teacher," Joy made her announcement the Monday school began again. Gilbert looked up from his perusal of the next day's appointments. Mr. Ingersoll at 9:00, Mrs. Hills at 9:45, open surgery from 1:00 to 4:00… "What's her name?"

"Mr. Ford."

Gilbert blinked, realizing his assumption as to the teacher's gender had been incorrect. "And is he a good teacher?"

Joy considered his question carefully, weighing Mr. Ford against the gold standard of Miss Shirley. "He uses a lot of funny words," she frowned, "what's _iridescent_ , Papa?"

Gilbert tamped down the temptation to snort. The new teacher was using words like 'iridescent' with six-year-olds? "Iridescent means when something is shiny, but changes colors - like a dragonfly's wing. Or the insides of the shells we sometimes find at the beach."

Joy clambered up into his lap, and Gilbert knew that he wouldn't be looking at his casebook anytime soon. "You're a better teacher than Mr. Ford, Papa," Joy curled up, pulling his watch out of its pocket and playing with it.

Gilbert grinned. "I used to be one, you know."

"I know," she said, "Miss Shirley told me."

* * *

"Really, Miss Shirley, I can't thank you enough," Owen Ford came up to Anne's classroom after school had let out, a few weeks into his appointment. February had come, and the icicles on the eaves were slowly dripping into the wet snowdrifts below.

Anne finished wiping the chalkboard before turning back to him, the late afternoon sun giving her a fiery halo. "Whatever for?"

He perched himself on the edge of a desk. "For lending me that wonderful book of Captain Jim's. I feel certain that it will provide invaluable to my new book."

"I'm always glad to help," Anne smiled broadly, "And Captain Jim was so pleased that you were taking an interest in his life-book. He's already shown it to everyone in the Glen, and I think he was glad to find a new person to show it to."

"He wants to read my manuscript," he added, "but I told him to wait until it's been published - then he'll see it in its best shape."

"I assume I won't get to see it until it's been bound and published either?" she teased gently. A friendship had sprung up between the two, and each recognized the other as a kindred spirit. Kindred spirits being who they are, the usual formalities had been abandoned, and Owen and Anne had become developed a friendship that went slightly beyond fellow teachers.

"You do realize that I am your higher-up, yes?" Anne grinned at him, pulling on her coat and gathering up her books. "I could order you to show me your manuscript."

"But you are too kind, Miss Shirley, and will patiently wait until I present you your own, autographed, copy."

Outside, they came to the small path that led to Anne's cottage. "Come inside for tea?" she offered. "I made pie yesterday, and I can attest to the fact that it will not poison you."

Owen had heard the story of the liniment cake, and had since treated any and all of her edible offerings with a healthy dose of caution. Today, however, it was not fear for his health that made him decline.

"Thank you, but no," he said, a faint blush staining his cheek, "Mrs. Moore invited me to take tea with her today, and I shouldn't like to make her wait."

Anne watched him hurry off down the lane, towards the large grey house. _So that's the way the wind blows._ Smiling to herself, she turned towards her cottage, eager for her slice of pie.

* * *

Whenever he was feeling bored, Gilbert Blythe liked to listen in on the gossip that passed through his waiting room. He realized it made him no better than Mrs. Lynde, taking enjoyment from the private matters of his patients, but sometimes, a man was just so _bored_.

So he listened to the gossip that flitted around the waiting room, whatever his more honorable side had to say about it. It served the dual purpose of keeping him abreast of the more trivial matters in Glen St. Mary, and kept him entertained at the same time.

Today, the matters concerned Mrs. Brewster, whose daughter was already in long skirts - _despite being only fifteen_.

"Long skirts, my dear, can you believe it? And I thought Louisa Brewster had a sensible head on her shoulders."

"She shouldn't be wearing them - the boys will stare."

"They already do. Lettie Brewster takes after her Mama - and as I recall Louise was too pretty for her own good, too."

"You're just jealous because she married Arthur Brewster and you didn't. But that's neither here nor there, because Lettie is wearing those new skirts to school-"

"Well, it's not as if she's going to school stark naked."

"-and we have a new teacher. A new, _gentleman_ teacher."

Gilbert had visions of Mr. Phillips and Prissy Andrews. _That_ had been a-

"Oh, for heaven's sake," a third voice joined the two that had been discussing the earth-stopping matters of Lettie Brewster's skirts, "Mr. Ford won't be looking at Lettie's skirts, or anyone's, for that matter. Haven't you seen him with Miss Shirley? Now, that's going to be a match. Thick as thieves, those two. I saw them walking by the shore a few days ago, and I tell you, Mr. Owen Ford is courting Principal Shirley."

Gilbert sat in his chair, stock-still, his mind racing. Anne and and Owen Ford? _Anne_ and _Owen Ford_? He cursed himself for listening in on the conversation - but for all he knew, it was all fabricated. The wives of Glen St. Mary had a habit of embellishing stories until they were virtually unrecognizable.

But fiction was based in truth, he knew. And from what he remembered of Mr. Ford, from their few meetings around town, he was very close to being Anne's ideal. Dark hair, flowery speech, dreamy eyes - the man was practically the walking, talking, breathing version of Perceval Dalrymple, the hero from Anne's old Rolling's Reliable story, _Averil's Atonement._

It was so comical he would have laughed, had he not been feeling so dejected.

Owen Ford was the new Royal Gardner.

* * *

On a warmer Saturday morning in March, Anne took it into her mind to visit Gilbert and Joy, with the invitation to come visit Captain Jim with her. The walk to Ingleside was always a pleasant one, even more so with the sun out, melting the snow on the branches. If the weather kept it up, the maples would soon be tapped, and the syrup boiling would begin.

Anne caught a glimpse of Ingleside between the trees, and quickened her step. She arrived at the kitchen door soon afterwards, and took a moment to straighten her hat before knocking. The door was cracked open by Susan, who opened the door wider once she had ascertained that the bright red hair outside it was indeed Miss Shirley's.

"Good morning, Susan," Anne smiled at her, "are Gilbert and Joy in? I was going to ask them down to visit Captain Jim with me."

Susan turned to the stove, where she pulled out a pan of quickbreads out of the oven, setting them down on the counter to cool, filling the kitchen with their sweet scent. "I can tell you that Joy will be delighted, but I can't speak for the dear doctor. He's been in a foul mood all week. He just came over queer one evening, and never got over it. It reminds me of a cousin on my mother's side - Billy Thornton, I think it was - he came over queer, much the same way Dr. dear has, and a week later, we were burying the poor man." Susan shook her head sadly. "Of course, he also had consumption, but you never know in cases such as these."

"Susan," Anne admonished her, "I certainly hope Joy hasn't heard you speaking this way. She'd be terrified."

Susan shook her head solemnly. "You're the only one I've told, Miss Shirley dear."

Anne was about to open her mouth to answer when Joy bounded into the kitchen, dark curls flying. "Miss Shirley! I thought I heard you!" She wrapped her arms around Anne's knees in a hug.

Anne bent down to return it. "Hello, darling. I was going to ask if you and your father wanted to come with me to - oh…" She looked up, straight into Gilbert Blythe's eyes. Eyes which had a look she had not seen in, well...since her junior year at Redmond. She stood, realizing that the foul mood Susan had referred to was very real indeed. "Good morning, Gil," she forced some cheer into her tone, hoping it might help a little, "I came to ask if you and Joy wanted to come visit Captain Jim with me."

She watched his lips press into a thin line, and her heart sank. "No thank you, Anne," he said softly, his tone taking on an almost deadly quality that made her blood run cold, "but I'm sure Joy would love to. Wouldn't you, sweetheart?" he looked to Joy, who was looking up at the two of them with a crease of concern between her brows. Realizing the question had been posed to her, she nodded vigorously.

"Oh, I'd love to visit Captain Jim, Miss Shirley!"

Anne turned back to Gilbert. "You're sure, then? Captain Jim's quite fond of you, you know."

"He's also very fond of Owen Ford," Gilbert snapped, "maybe you should take him instead." With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of the kitchen, leaving a rather hurt Anne staring after him.

Susan gave a low whistle. "And that, Miss Shirley dear, is what I meant."

* * *

Anne's thoughts were in a perpetual muddle as she and Joy picked their way to the lighthouse. What had happened to Gilbert to make him so angry? Most of all, he seemed to be angry at her - and from what she could see, she had done very little that could have made him angry. Thinking back to Avonlea, she decided that it was quite the opposite, in fact.

But she couldn't deny that it hurt. It hurt like the dickens, to use a term Davy was fond of. She looked up at the sky, tipping her head back to keep the tears from leaking out. Of all the people on this planet, Gilbert Blythe was certainly the last person she'd expected to be taking that stance with her. She thought they'd moved past all that, and were headed for something better.

Obviously, she had been wrong. Dr. Blythe was simply like all other men, and she would soon be nothing but a memory.

 _Well, fine, Gilbert Blythe_ , she thought, _have it your way_.

* * *

"Eh, Miss Shirley," Captain Jim greeted Anne when she knocked on the door of the lighthouse, "wonderful to see ye, as ever. And Miss Blythe, too!" he led them into the parlor, where a cheerful fire crackled in the hearth, and disappeared into the small kitchen, reappearing with a tray of scones and tea. " _Twill be a real treat,_ Miss Shirley. _I mostly has to eat my meals alone, with the reflection of my ugly old phiz in a looking-glass opposite for company. 'Tisn't often I have a chance to sit down with two such sweet, purty ladies."_

"Ever the flatterer, Captain Jim," Anne smiled, hoping it would mask her inner turmoil, "I'm certain the ladies of Four Winds flock to dine with you."

"Would that they might," Captain Jim sat in his old armchair, watching her pour tea into the cups, "but my courtin' days are over."

Anne took a scone for herself and then passed the plate to Captain Jim, where it passed on to Joy. Once the party of three had gotten their tea and cakes, they settled back to watch the fire, while Captain Jim told them the story of the schoolmaster's bride.

 _The schoolmaster's name was John Selwyn. He came out from the Old Country to teach school at the Glen when I was a boy of sixteen. He wasn't much like the usual run of derelicts who used to come out to P.E.I. to teach school in them days. Most of them were clever, drunken critters who taught the children the three R's when they were sober, and lambasted them when they wasn't. But John Selwyn was a fine, handsome young fellow. He boarded at my father's, and he and me were cronies, though he was ten years older'n me. We read and walked and talked a heap together. He knew about all the poetry that was ever written, I reckon, and he used to quote it to me along shore in the evenings. Dad thought it an awful waste of time, but he sorter endured it, hoping it'd put me off the notion of going to sea. Well, nothing could do that-mother come of a race of sea-going folk and it was born in me. But I loved to hear John read and recite. It's almost sixty years ago, but I could repeat yards of poetry I learned from him. Nearly sixty years!"_

 _Captain Jim was silent for a space, gazing into the glowing fire in a quest of the bygones. Then, with a sigh, he resumed his story._

 _"I remember one spring evening I met him on the sand-hills. He looked sorter uplifted-and he told me that he had a sweetheart back home and that she was coming out to him. I wasn't more'n half pleased, ornery young lump of selfishness that I was; I thought he wouldn't be as much my friend after she came. But I'd enough decency not to let him see it. He told me all about her. Her name was Persis Leigh, and she would have come out with him if it hadn't been for her old uncle. He was sick, and he'd looked after her when her parents died and she wouldn't leave him. And now he was dead and she was coming out to marry John Selwyn. 'Twasn't no easy journey for a woman in them days. There weren't no steamers, you must ricollect."_

 _`When do you expect her?' says I._

 _"`She sails on the Royal William, the 20th of June,' says he, `and so she should be here by mid-July. I must set Carpenter Johnson to building me a home for her. Her letter come today. I know before I opened it that it had good news for me. I saw her a few nights ago.'_

 _"I didn't understand him, and then he explained-though I didn't understand that much better. He said he had a gift-or a curse. Them was his words, Mistress Blythe-a gift or a curse. He didn't know which it was. He said a great-great-grandmother of his had had it, and they burned her for a witch on account of it. He said queer spells-trances, I think was the name he give 'em-come over him now and again."_

 _"Well, purty soon all the Glen and Four Winds people knew the schoolmaster's bride was coming, and they were all glad because they thought so much of him. And everybody took an interest in his new house-your house. He picked that site for it, because you could see the harbor and hear the sea from it. He made the garden out there for his bride, but he didn't plant the Lombardies. Mrs. Ned Russell planted them. But there's a double row of rose-bushes in the garden that the little girls who went to the Glen school set out there for the schoolmaster's bride. He said they were pink for her cheeks and white for her brow and red for her lips. He'd quoted poetry so much that he sorter got into the habit of talking it, too, I reckon._

 _"Almost everybody sent him some little present to help out the furnishing of the house. When the Russells came into it they were well-to-do and furnished it real handsome, as you can see; but the first furniture that went into it was plain enough. This little house was rich in love, though. The women sent in quilts and tablecloths and towels, and one man made a chest for her, and another a table and so on. Even blind old Aunt Margaret Boyd wove a little basket for her out of the sweet-scented sand-hill grass. The schoolmaster's wife used it for years to keep her handkerchiefs in._

 _"Well, at last everything was ready-even to the logs in the big fireplace ready for lighting. 'Twasn't exactly this fireplace, though 'twas in the same place. Miss Elizabeth had this put in when she made the house over fifteen years ago. It was a big, old-fashioned fireplace where you could have roasted an ox. Many's the time I've sat_ there _and spun yarns, same's I'm doing_ here today _."_

 _Again there was a silence, while Captain Jim kept a passing tryst with visitants Anne could not see-the folks who had sat with him around that fireplace in the vanished years, with mirth and bridal joy shining in eyes long since closed forever under churchyard sod or heaving leagues of sea. Here on olden nights children had tossed laughter lightly to and fro. Here on winter evenings friends had gathered. Dance and music and jest had been here. Here youths and maidens had dreamed. For Captain Jim the little house was tenanted with shapes entreating remembrance._

 _"It was the first of July when the house was finished. The schoolmaster began to count the days then. We used to see him walking along the shore, and we'd say to each other, `She'll soon be with him now.'_

 _"She was expected the middle of July, but she didn't come then. Nobody felt anxious. Vessels were often delayed for days and mebbe weeks. The Royal William was a week overdue-and then two-and then three. And at last we began to be frightened, and it got worse and worse. Fin'lly I couldn't bear to look into John Selwyn's eyes. D'ye know,_ Miss Shirley _"-Captain Jim lowered his voice-"I used to think that they looked just like what his old great-great-grandmother's must have been when they were burning her to death. He never said much but he taught school like a man in a dream and then hurried to the shore. Many a night he walked there from dark to dawn. People said he was losing his mind. Everybody had given up hope-the Royal William was eight weeks overdue. It was the middle of September and the schoolmaster's bride hadn't come- never would come, we thought._

 _"There was a big storm then that lasted three days, and on the evening after it died away I went to the shore. I found the schoolmaster there, leaning with his arms folded against a big rock, gazing out to sea._

 _"I spoke to him but he didn't answer. His eyes seemed to be looking at something I couldn't see. His face was set, like a dead man's._

 _"`John-John,' I called out-jest like that-jest like a frightened child, `wake up-wake up.'_

 _"That strange, awful look seemed to sorter fade out of his eyes._

 _He turned his head and looked at me. I've never forgot his face- never will forget it till I ships for my last voyage._

 _"`All is well, lad,' he says. `I've seen the Royal William coming around East Point. She will be here by dawn. Tomorrow night I shall sit with my bride by my own hearth-fire.'_

 _"Do you think he did see it?" demanded Captain Jim abruptly._

"Yes, I think he did," Anne said quietly, looking out the window, out to sea, as the schoolmaster had all those years ago.

 _Because, you know," said Captain Jim solemnly, "the Royal William came into Four Winds Harbor at daylight the next morning. Every soul in the Glen and along the shore was at the old wharf to meet her. The schoolmaster had been watching there all night. How we cheered as she sailed up the channel."_

 _Captain Jim's eyes were shining. They were looking at the Four Winds Harbor of sixty years agone, with a battered old ship sailing through the sunrise splendor._

And Anne and Joy saw it with him, the Royal William coming into port, battered and bruised from her long journey, sails torn and crew exhausted, with the long-awaited Persis Leigh on board.

Anne imagined the reunion between the schoolmaster and his bride-to-be, and felt a small pang in her heart. She could feel the very romance of the story in her bones, as she liked to say. I _t's a dear story," she said, feeling that for once she had got enough romance to satisfy her. "How long did they live here?"_

 _"Fifteen years. I ran off to sea soon after they were married, like the young scalawag I was. But every time I come back from a voyage I'd head for here, even before I went home, and tell Mistress Selwyn all about it. Fifteen happy years! They had a sort of talent for happiness, them two. Some folks are like that, if you've noticed. They couldn't be unhappy for long, no matter what happened. They quarrelled once or twice, for they was both high-sperrited. But Mistress Selwyn says to me once, says she, laughing in that pretty way of hers, `I felt dreadful when John and I quarrelled, but underneath it all I was very happy because I had such a nice husband to quarrel with and make it up with.' Then they moved to Charlottetown,_ * and the school board bought the house too, on account of it already having been the schoolmaster's - why not keep it so? There've been a good many teachers and principals've come through it, Miss Shirley, but there's none of them been quite like you."

Anne smiled, looking into the fire dreamily, still half-immersed in John and Persis Selwyn's story. "How's that?"

"You're part of the Race that knows Joseph, as Miss Cornelia might say. She divides the world into two groups - them that knows and them that don't. Them that knows will always know. And them that don't, well, they never will, she says. Pers'nally, I think there's hope for them that don't know Joseph - for 't'only means they don't know him _yet_."

"How right you are," Anne looked at him, her inner muddle shining through her eyes, "we must always remember that there is still hope in the world."

* * *

A shaggy dog appeared, coming up to the small group with its tail wagging. Joy quickly became occupied with him, and Captain Jim leaned forward and gave Anne a look that made her feel as though he were looking into her soul. "Now, Miss Shirley, what's troubling you?"

Anne darted a glance at Joy, who was now fast asleep with her head on the dog's stomach, and motioned towards the door with her head. Captain Jim led her up the spiralling staircase, around and around until they came to the platform surrounding the light room at the top. Leaning back against the railings, the spraying sea at his back, Captain Jim repeated his earlier question.

"What's troubling you, Miss Shirley?"

Anne sighed, watching the sea that mimicked her emotions. "I don't know. Or - perhaps I do. It's just such a confusing jumble that I don't know what to do…" she trailed off, looking up at the clouds that had gathered while they had been inside. They, too, swirled in a dance with the ocean, meeting on a distant horizon.

"Storm coming," Captain Jim observed, looking up. "But that's neither here nor there, Miss Shirley. You reminded me of someone down there - and that someone would be John Selwyn, while he was watching and waiting for his Persis. Not in sixty years, Miss Shirley, have I seen anyone look half as tortured, until I saw you sittin' in my parlor."

"Captain Jim," Anne began, "what would you tell me about a man who had been acting a certain way, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, acted in a completely opposite manner?"

"I would say that the man's in love," he told her frankly, "and I would also dare to say that the man in question's Dr. Blythe."

"You're right on the second count," she nodded slightly, barely inclining her head, "and a few weeks ago, I might have been inclined to agree with you on both points, but recent events have pointed to something quite different."

"Have they, though, Miss Shirley?" Captain Jim cocked his head. "Why don't ye tell me what happened."

The invitation released a veritable torrent of words. "Dr. Blythe and I have known each other for most of our lives," she began, starting with the slate, moving through AVIS, and on to Redmond. "Our sophomore year at college, Gilbert proposed to me. I rejected him, and we, well, didn't see much of each other for the rest of our time there. I was courted by another fellow, who is now married to a lovely girl, by the way, and Gilbert left immediately after winning the Cooper prize, and went to Toronto. I didn't know where he was, how he was, anything at all, really, until I met him again when I became the teacher in the Glen. I refused to speak to him for a few months, and then I thought we'd decided to let bygones be bygones, and were moving forward into something better than before...but I was clearly mistaken." Anne drew breath, and recounted the events of that morning. "I invited both Gilbert and Joy to come visit you with me, but he informed me that maybe I ought to take Owen Ford instead."

A light came into Captain Jim's eyes. He knew exactly what was happening here. "I don't know if you'll take an old bachelor's opinion, Miss Shirley, but -"

"Miss Shirley!"

Joy's voice reached them, faint from the distance between them. "Miss Shirley!"

"Oh, good heavens," Anne rushed towards the door, "I've left her alone. Her father would have my head. Please excuse me, Captain Jim, but we're going to have to continue this some other time." With that, she disappeared down the stairs, and Captain Jim saw his guests reappear out the front door a few minutes later.

Anne tipped her head back and called up to him. "Thank you ever so much for a lovely time, Captain Jim. It's getting rather windy though, and I think I'll get Joy home a bit early. I'll be back to visit again soon!"

Captain Jim watched the figures, hunched against the wind, disappear around the bend in the road, and turned back to his light. There was a storm coming, and the light needed to be kept lit to guide home any poor souls that might be out on the seas that day.

* * *

* _Liberally taken, in large quantities, from_ Anne's House of Dreams

 _Can you see, dear reader, where I'm taking this story next? I'm not nearly done with Gilbert, either. He's going to see red before I'm done with him. And it's a trifle frightening that I'm pleased at the prospect. Or maybe it's just that it's 2:30 in the morning, and that I am seriously sleep-deprived. The writing bug caught me a few hours ago, and this latest chapter is the result. Sorry for the slight drought, but I hope this chapter makes up for it in a small way :)_


	18. Anne's Atonement

The March that had come in like a lion went out like a lamb, leaving behind sunny days, warmth, and far too many puddles for the Glen St. Mary children to get wet and dirty in. Normally, Gilbert liked this time of year, with the hope and promise it showed - and the added opportunities for his daughter to play outside. But this year, he went through the budding spring with the bleakest of winters in his heart. For him, it was January all the time; if he was having a good day, it might be February.

Anne, his Anne, was being courted by a man who might as well be a reincarnation of Royal Gardner. Whenever he saw them, usually walking up to her gate after school, they would be laughing, teasing one another, acting as though no one else in the world existed. Gilbert faded into the background of budding trees, and wished that either he or Owen Ford were dead.

And it hurt. By God, did it hurt. He'd thought he couldn't hurt more when, at the tender age of twenty-two, Anne had rejected his proposal. But somehow, this was worse now, because he had finally, tentatively, allowed himself to hope again. And it had all been for naught; whatever he had imagined lay between them had been just that: imaginary.

 _Pull yourself together, Blythe,_ he commanded himself. He had better things to do in life than mope after a woman.

Pity he couldn't think of a single one.

* * *

Anne sat by herself in her kitchen, her fingers wrapped around a cup of tea, staring into its depths as though it held the secrets of the universe. On Friday, she had tried to speak to Gilbert, only to have him turn away and stalk briskly down the lane with Joy in tow. The black mood Susan had described, and that she had briefly witnessed, obviously hadn't dissipated, and she wished she knew what was wrong with him. Why didn't he confide in her? They were friends, weren't they? And friends told each other things, especially when something bothered them.

And something was certainly bothering Gilbert. Anne, however, was in no mood to call him out on his behavior - he was more than likely to bite her head off and make more comments against Owen Ford.

 _Boys._

"Honestly," she sighed, flicking the side of her cup with her finger, causing it to give a sharp _clink_. What did Gilbert Blythe have against Mr. Ford? The two had, to the best of her knowledge, never met, and had no reason to hold a grudge against one another. Mr. Ford had never done anything to Gilbert - quite the contrary, in fact. In his report on Joy, he had written that the child was a "bright, energetic, and unusually clever, clearly taking after her father," and suggested that someday, there might be another Dr. Blythe in the family. In Anne's experience, a sure way into Gilbert's heart was through his daughter - so why hadn't Owen, with all his admirable qualities and likeable charm, managed to make friends with Gilbert?

And speaking of Owen, Anne realized she hadn't been to visit Leslie in almost a fortnight. Well, she thought, that was something she could remedy soon. She decided to go visit Leslie after church on Sunday.

* * *

"One week until Easter," Leslie said to Anne as the two pulled on their coats after church, "and then we can have sugar in our tea again."

"You do realize Presbyterians don't have to give up anything for Lent?" Anne grinned, linking arms with the other woman. Rather than stay for the light tea served after services, they had decided to have theirs at Leslie's. This decision was based in no small part on the fact that Leslie's cooking skills were far superior to Anne's, and that the likelihood of something edible being found in her kitchen was exponentially higher.

"The first lambs were born last night," Leslie announced as they turned onto the road that overlooked the harbor.

"I thought you looked tired in church," Anne stepped around a deep puddle, holding her skirts out of the way. "How did it go?"

"Mr. Ford tried to help."

"Oh dear."

Leslie shook her head ruefully. "Oh dear, indeed. I didn't think it was possible for a body to confuse the head of a lamb with the mother's udder, but there you have it. Do you know how close he came to milking that poor animal's head?"

"I think he means well," suggested Anne.

Leslie shook her head again. "Well, if he could please keep away from my livestock, it would be greatly appreciated. Tenderfoot," she snorted indelicately.

Anne had noticed a change gradually come over her friend in the last month or so. She had become freer with her emotions, and was more willing to talk. Her clothing, too, had changed. No longer did she dress solely in blacks and dark blues, with her customary splash of crimson somewhere on her person. She wasn't wearing the latest fashions, and heaven forbid that anything she wore be gaudy, but color had certainly made its way into her wardrobe now. Today, for instance, she was clad in a very becoming rose, and Anne bit back a grin at the memory of half the bachelor's jaws dropping when Mrs. Dick Moore had walked into church that morning. Leslie was changing, and Anne had a pretty good idea why.

"How is Dr. Blythe?"

The abrupt question caused all thoughts of rose dresses and dropping jaws to sail straight over the harbor, replaced by the more immediate, and far less pleasant thoughts of Gilbert Blythe.

"He's…" Anne, usually so eloquent, fought to find the words to express what she felt. "He's changed, Leslie!" she practically wailed. "We were such good friends, and then suddenly we weren't. It was as though a light had been turned off in him-one day, all smiles and charm, and the next, 'a February face, so full of frost and storm and cloudiness,' in the immortal words of the Bard. I can't explain it, Leslie. I've been thinking about it for some time now, and he's been this way for almost a month." She drew breath to continue her tirade, "And I tried to ask him what was wrong, but it's as though I no longer have a place in his life. I am merely his daughter's teacher, and his least favorite person on Earth, to boot."

"Well, if all else fails," Leslie gave her a teasing smile, "you've still got me and Miss Cornelia. And I can assure you that we will always take your side, because isn't he just like a man?"

* * *

"Now, your homework over Easter break," Anne addressed her class the Friday before Easter, her stern expression softened by the irrepressible twinkle in her eye, "is to have fun. Mind you don't drive your parents to distraction, and - oh, don't anyone forget to take a book to read over break," she pointed to the bookshelf next to her desk, filled with books for that very purpose. "Now, class dismissed!" Anne's wishes of a happy Easter were drowned out in the mad stampede for the bookshelf and then door. After breaking up a tussle between Alec and Alonzo, who both _desperately_ wanted the same book, and picking up a fallen bag that had spilled its contents far and wide across the classroom, Anne took a deep breath, relishing the silence.

It had been a hard week. The older students had had exams, and she _so_ wanted them to do well, and even had a few who were ready for Queens, if only they got high enough marks. Then she had to grade all of them, which took up most of her evenings, leaving her at about one in the morning with a stack of marked up essays in front of her, and dark circles under her eyes. She was, quite frankly, exhausted, both in body and spirit. It truly had not helped that every day after school, she had to look Gilbert in the eye as he picked up his daughter, and watch his slowly retreating form without a fare-thee-well.

Was this what Gil had felt like, in those five years she had ignored him, making cutting remarks when she could, and cruel ones whenever she felt? Because if it was, she was sure she would not be able to endure another month of this, let alone five years. Tears rose in her eyes, and she looked out the window, where she could see Gilbert and Joy disappearing around the bend in the road.

A tear slowly trickled down her cheek, leaving a cool trail in its wake. "Forgive me," she whispered, "Please, forgive me." Whether she was imploring God, Gilbert, or someone else, she did not know. All that she knew was that she was being paid back a hundredfold for the follies of her youth.

* * *

After that afternoon, Anne decided that she would no longer wait for Gilbert Blythe to come back. If he chose to ignore her, so be it. If he wanted her to hurt, well, he'd certainly succeeded. But if he thought for one moment that her spirit could be broken, then Gilbert Blythe didn't know her. The Saturday before Easter, Anne donned an old dress, put her hair up in a rag, and gave her little cottage a scrubbing that neither Marilla nor Mrs. Lynde could have found fault with. Around sundown, when the last pan of dust had been ceremoniously flung from the porch, she pulled her dress for the next day out, ironing it before letting it rest on the hanger. And she wasn't finished yet: the fireplaces were relieved of ashes, new linens put on the bed, and some early flowers and grasses put in the pitcher on her nightstand.

Then, finally so exhausted she didn't have the strength to worry anymore, Anne tumbled into bed, welcoming the oblivion that consumed her.

* * *

Normally, Anne loved Easter services. The entire message of rebirth and miracles spoke to her more than any other story in the Bible. Besides, it was spring, and it was an unusually warm Sunday, so the stained glass windows had been opened, letting the breeze come in and join them in worship.

At any other time, Anne would have been in raptures. Instead, she sat dumbly in the pew between Leslie and Miss Cornelia, only standing with the latter gave her a sharp dig in the ribs with her elbow.

"Anne, dearie, whatever's the matter with you?" Miss Cornelia hissed, for once in her life ignoring a sermon.

Anne shook her head, her eyes fixed on a spot across the aisle where a set of chestnut curls was bowed over a hymnal. She was struck again, as she had on Friday, that this must have been how Gilbert felt. Always watching, unable to do anything _but_ watch. Why she was looking at him, she had no idea - probably a form of self-imposed torture - but it was as though her eyes automatically looked for him, without asking her mind for permission first.

Another dig in the ribs, this time from Leslie, signalling that it was time to sit down again. And so it continued for the remainder of the service, with Anne's companions on either side poking her to cue her to stand and sit, whatever the occasion required. Anne simply followed the rest of the congregation mindlessly, going through the motions, but never realizing quite what was happening around her.

It was, without a doubt, the worst Easter of her life. Worse the one she had spent at the Hopetown Asylum; there, at least, she had been able to muster the energy to imagine that her linsey-woolsey was beautiful silk, that her shoes didn't pinch, and that she was in a soaring cathedral, the strains of a pipe organ thrilling her very soul. But here, Anne hadn't the will to imagine away any of her misery - so she simply chose to drown in it, something she had never allowed herself to do in all of her twenty-eight years. It simply didn't seem worth it to convince herself that everything was wonderful when it quite obviously _wasn't._

Leslie touched her on the arm. "Anne, services are over. We have to leave the pew."

Anne shook herself. "I'm terribly sorry, Leslie; I must have…" she trailed off, collecting her coat and hat before stepping out into the warm sun.

"Mr. Ford will be joining us later for dinner," Leslie informed her as they made their way up the harbor road, "I also asked Miss Cornelia to come, but she'd already accepted an invitation from Mr. Elliott, from what I've heard tell," Leslie looked over at Anne, realizing that the latter hadn't heard a word of her speech. "Anne, you haven't heard a word I said. Is everything alright?"

Anne shook herself and made a manful attempt to smile. "I'm terribly sorry, Leslie, I must have been distracted - isn't the harbor beautiful today?"

Ignoring the harbor, Leslie set her jaw in a determined manner. "Anne, what is happening to you? It's as though you've been drifting away all spring. Today during the service - did you hear one word of the sermon?"

"I'm fairly certain the Reverend used the word 'the' several times."

"Anne Shirley, don't you get smart with me," with her hair blown in the breeze from the harbor and her eyes flashing underneath the crimson ribbon on her hat, Leslie cut a rather intimidating figure on the harbor road. It occurred to Anne that the possibility of her being pushed over the side of the road and into the harbor was quite high. Leslie stopped, and facing Anne, asked seriously, "Now, tell me exactly what's happened."

Anne gave a smile that looked rather ill. "Nothing's happened, really. You know Dr. Blythe, don't you?"

"I doubt that there's anyone in the Glen who doesn't."

"Gil and I-"

" _Gil_ and you?"

"Leslie Moore, you've asked me to talk, and I am talking, if you will only be blessedly silent," Anne's voice took on the sharp quality her students knew to fear, "Gilbert Blythe and I have known each other for over fifteen years, and for five of those, I refused to talk to him."

"And?"

"And now I'm getting a taste of my own medicine." Anne fought to keep her tears down. "It's a rather macabre reversal of the first five years of our acquaintance, really."

"What happened, dear?" Leslie started walking again, gently taking Anne's elbow to steer her along.

Anne took a deep breath. "I suppose that to explain this, you need to know that Gilbert proposed to me." Leslie's golden brows shot skyward to meet the brim of her hat. "Not recently. About eight years ago - it will be in May. I refused, he married Christine Stuart, and I saw him again for the first time last fall, when I came here. Around Christmas, we...well...anyways…"

"I assume he was a gentleman."

"Gilbert Blythe is never anything _but_ a gentleman, Leslie. Whatever thoughts are going through your head may cease now. Suffice it to say that our relationship improved markedly...and then it didn't. Gilbert went into a foul mood, and he's refusing to speak to me." She sighed, "And it hurts, Leslie - if this is what I did to him for five years, I don't think I could ever atone for it."

"Anne," Leslie said slowly, "has it occured to you that you might be in love?"

"In love with Gilbert Blythe?"

"Would there be anyone else?"

Anne shook her head. "No. _No_. Love isn't - it isn't supposed to feel like this. It isn't supposed to hurt." The tears she had fought so hard to suppress welled over and trickled over her cheeks, catching the sunlight as they rolled downward.

"Oh, darling," Leslie wrapped her arms around her, "sometimes it simply can't be helped. Love is a strange emotion that can cause wonder and beauty, but also immeasurable pain." She looked at Anne, smiling sadly. "I would know."

* * *

"Pass the potatoes please, Mr. Ford." Leslie smiled pleasantly at her boarder, patiently waiting for him to send the bowl with new potatoes across the table. Fumbling only slightly, he passed it, jumping back as though burned when their fingers brushed accidentally.

Anne watched this exchange with some amusement. After having a good cry on the shore road, she was feeling much better. Truly, she had forgotten the benefits a good cry could have. Now, she was able to watch her two friends act very nearly as awkwardly as two people could.

A slightly heavy silence hung over the small party, and the usually suave and eloquent Owen Ford was stuttering, dropping dishes and silverware, and generally acting as unsophisticated as a man could.

If she had to draw a comparison, it would be to Fred Wright in the very early days of his courting Diana. Fred had stuttered and stammered, and Anne remembered a certain meal at the Barry's, at which he had dropped the salt shaker not once, not twice, but _ten_ times. By the end of the meal, Gilbert had been asking him to pass the salt, just to see him fumble it.

Anne chuckled, causing Leslie to look up from her lamb.

"Yes?"

"Oh, nothing," a wicked gleam came into Anne's eye, "pass the salt, please, Mr. Ford."

Owen Ford dropped the saltshaker - for the fourth time.

* * *

That afternoon, Owen walked Anne home, suspiciously quiet on the way. Normally, he would have gone into raptures about the harbor, or the trees in their filmy green veils, or if all else failed, the seagulls, but he remained closemouthed until they reached Anne's gate.

Anne smiled up at him from her side of the white picket fence. "Thank you for walking me home, Mr. Ford. It was very kind of you."

"Actually, Miss Shirley, I came because I wanted to speak to you. " _There is something I must tell somebody, or I think it will drive me mad. I've been trying for a week to look it in the face-and I can't. I know I can trust you-and, besides, you will understand. A woman with eyes like yours always understands."_

"Well, I am in a rather understanding mood," Anne opened the gate and gestured for him to enter the garden. "Why don't you sit?" she pointed to the bench under the trellis that would be covered in roses come summer.

Owen made his way to the bench and perched on the edge, as if considering flight. Anne seated herself next to him, waiting for his confession.

Suddenly, it exploded out of him. "Miss Shirley, _I love her! That seems too weak a word!"_

 _His voice suddenly broke with the suppressed passion of his utterance. He turned his head away and hid his face on his arm. His whole form shook. Anne sat looking at him,_ seeing that this was the culmination of all that she witnessed. Hearing it, however, was an entirely different thing than the speculation she had done on her own. _She realized that things like this did not happen in Four Winds. Elsewhere in the world human passions might set at defiance human conventions and laws-but not here, surely. Leslie had kept boarders off and on for ten years, and nothing like this had happened. But perhaps they had not been like Owen Ford; and the vivid, living Leslie of this spring was not the cold, sullen girl of other years. Oh, somebody should have thought of this! Why hadn't Miss Cornelia thought of it? Miss Cornelia was always ready enough to sound the alarm where men were concerned. Anne felt an unreasonable resentment against Miss Cornelia. Then she gave a little inward groan. No matter who was to blame the mischief was done. And Leslie-what of Leslie? It was for Leslie Anne felt most concerned._

 _"Does Leslie know this, Mr. Ford?" she asked quietly._

 _"No-no,-unless she has guessed it. You surely don't think I'd be cad and scoundrel enough to tell her, Miss Shirley. I couldn't help loving her-that's all-and my misery is greater than I can bear."_

 _"Does she care?" asked Anne. The moment the question crossed her lips she felt that she should not have asked it. Owen Ford answered it with overeager protest._

 _"No-no, of course not. But I could make her care - I know I could."_

 _"She does care-and he knows it," thought Anne._ "Mr. Ford, have you considered telling her of your feelings?"

"No - I couldn't. My contract is up in June, and then I go West. The West is no place for a woman like Leslie, Miss Shirley, and - and-"

"Mr. Ford, you do Leslie a disservice. Before assuming anything about her, you might want to ask her first," Anne told him sternly.

"But the West, Miss Shirley-" Owen broke off, running his fingers through his dark hair, "the West is even harder than her life here. And her life here, Miss Shirley, is already difficult. She struggles to keep the farm, does all the work herself - I saw her deliver a lamb last week, and to think that she considers that 'light work' - _It's hideous-hideous!"_

 _"It is very hard," said Anne sorrowfully. "We-her friends here-all know how hard it is for her."_

 _"And she is so richly fitted for life," said Owen rebelliously._

 _"Her beauty is the least of her dower-and she is the most beautiful woman I've ever known. That laugh of hers! I've angled all spring to evoke that laugh, just for the delight of hearing it. And her eyes- they are as deep and blue as the gulf out there. I never saw such blueness-and gold! Did you ever see her hair down, Miss Shirley?"_

 _"No."_

 _"I did-once. I had gone down to the Point to go fishing with Captain Jim but it was too rough to go out, so I came back. She had taken the opportunity of what she expected to be an afternoon alone to wash her hair, and she was standing on the veranda in the sunshine to dry it. It fell all about her to her feet in a fountain of living gold. When she saw me she hurried in, and the wind caught her hair and swirled it all around her-Danae in her cloud. Somehow, just then the knowledge that I loved her came home to me-and realised that I had loved her from the moment I first saw her standing against the darkness in that glow of light."*_

Upon hearing this impassioned speech, Anne realized two things: first, that Owen Ford needed to say something to Leslie. Second, that with his gift of words, he could truly put some effort into this declaration.

"Mr. Ford, let us assume that you will indeed tell Mrs. Moore of your feelings. How would you go about it?" She fixed him with a stare that made even the strongest twelfth-year student slide down in his seat.

"I have...a few ideas."

"Well, let's hear them, then." Anne gave him an encouraging smile.

Owen stood, and with the Lombardy poplars to his back, and drew breath before launching into his confession. "Oh, fairest of the fair...oh, loveliest of women…"

* * *

Gilbert strode down the road, mentally reciting a list of reasons not to turn back.

 _It's Anne._

 _You really do need to know, instead of spending months assuming the worst_

 _You might as well put yourself out of your misery_

 _Just do it, Blythe._

Unlike a certain redhead teacher of his acquaintance, he had actually paid attention to the sermon that morning - when he hadn't been feeling Anne's eyes drilling into him like beams of light. The theme - that the resurrection of the Lord be an inspiration to them all - had indeed inspired him, and he had shored up the courage to visit Anne and ask, for once and for all, if he stood a chance with her.

He walked past the school and turned towards the gate. _Alright, Blythe - no time like the present_. He had one hand on the gate, and was about to push it open to step into the garden, when he saw _him_. Royal Gardner - no, wait, Owen Ford. He was standing in front of Anne, who looked up at him with an expression usually reserved for her students, beautiful sunsets - and formerly, Gilbert. Meanwhile, Ford appeared to be declaiming poetry - most likely of his own composition:

"Oh, fairest of the fair...oh, loveliest of women…"

Gilbert drew back, pulling his hand from the gate as though burned. And in a way, he had been. Those horrible words, spoken to Anne - no longer _his_ Anne - were seared into his mind and onto his heart.

Somehow, he wasn't sure exactly how, he found himself a ways down the road, his head pressed against a tree trunk, the rough bark digging into his forehead. His heart, unruly organ that it was, raced, causing his blood to pound in his ears, repeating the message he already knew to be true in his soul:

Anne Shirley was lost to him forever.

* * *

* _Anne's House of Dreams, Ch. 26, "Owen Ford's Confession."_

 ** _Can you tell I've had it with winter? I've skipped over most of February and March in one chapter, and headed straight into April :) And here we've just gotten another foot of snow, so the groundhog's prediction seems to have been right... (will someone do me a great favor and explain the point of Groundhog Day?)_**

 ** _This chapter was written with kslchen in mind, because at this is basically the high point of all the evilness I've heaped on my characters, and I will credit her with most of it (including the phrase "Oh, fairest of the fair, oh, loveliest of women." Isn't it just...so like Owen?)_**

 ** _Oh, and responses:_**

 ** _caprubia: I can promise a May Day dance, and another trip to Avonlea._**

 ** _kslchen: Isn't he just like a man? I, too, want to give them a good shake._**

 ** _Original McFishie: Behold the green-eyed monster!_**

 ** _Oz diva: Obviously, Gilbert didn't take your advice. He's still listening in on conversations he has no business listening in on, and suffering for it :)_**

 ** _Phantom of Les Mis: It seemed like a good idea at the time :) but now I'm wishing I hadn't made this quite so elaborate...because it can only escalate from here._**


	19. Gilbert Comes To His Senses

Later in his life, when he looked back on that miserable April, Gilbert would be torn between humor at all that had transpired, and the fervent desire to give his younger self a good shake. When he thought of the fact that it could all have been avoided so easily...he shuddered at the thought of his behavior. Well, one thing was certain: he was definitely cured of ever listening in on conversations!

* * *

"Dr. dear," Susan said as she served him his eggs and toast later in the month, "sometimes I wonder what happened to you. Just when I thought that there might be hope for men, and that the child might have a mother again - and such a sweet mother, don't you agree, Dr. dear? - something came over you, and you became a recluse. I suppose you won't be going to the dance next week, either."

Gilbert looked up from his newspaper and eggs - the former being read while the latter was being eaten - "What dance?" he asked absentmindedly.

He thought he heard Susan snort in annoyance. "The one Captain Jim Boyd has been having by the shore every first of May or thereabouts, for the past twenty-five years."

"Oh, _that_ dance. No, I don't suppose I will," he returned to his paper and eggs, ignoring his housekeeper again.

"Doubt she'd go with you anyways, after the way you've snubbed her all spring," she muttered, keeping the side commentary damped with the sound of a clattering pot, "or the way you nearly snapped her head off the last time she came here," she let a stack of plates rattle in their cupboard, muffling this last comment. Casting a pitying look in the doctor's direction she quietly lifted a prayer to heaven, that Dr. dear might please get his head out of his rear soon.

* * *

Gilbert was just about to close up his surgery when a semi-familiar golden head sailed up the front steps and into his surgery.

"Mrs. Moore," he greeted her, "what brings you here today?"

Leslie Moore produced a hand wrapped in a wet handkerchief. "I was replacing some shingles on the porch that blew off in the last storm, and I fell off the ladder and onto my wrist."

Gilbert gave a low whistle. "Well, you're lucky that's all that happened, Mrs. Moore," he guided her to his examination table and waited until she was seated before he took her wrist, noting her hiss of breath as he jarred it slightly. "Can you move your fingers?"

The long, slim fingers hardened by years of hard work gave a twitch.

"Not broken, then," he slowly rotated the wrist, carefully pressing down on the sides, causing Leslie to wince, "but definitely sprained." He released the wrist turning to the dispensary to measure out a pound of bentonite clay. "Now, mix this into a thick paste and make a poultice on your wrist," he instructed her, "and leave it on for about an hour. It should help bring the swelling down, and if nothing else, will immobilise your wrist for an hour, giving it some much-needed rest. Repeat this daily for about a week, then come back and see me to make certain nothing is seriously wrong."

He sat down in his chair, jotting down instructions on a prescription. "And, Mrs. Moore, if I might make a recommendation?"

One golden eyebrow rose. "Yes?"

"Might I suggest that you limit your strenuous activity, even after your wrist has healed? Find someone - maybe a boy from another farm - to do things like reshingle your roof or paint your barn. I think you'll find that injuries such as this one will become a good deal less common." He handed her the prescription. "There, follow these and you should be good as new by the time that dance next week comes around."

Leslie straightened her hat and rebuttoned a glove. "Are you going, Dr. Blythe?"

"Hmmm?" he turned back to her, and one look at his eyes showed how much these last months had taken out of him. "No, probably not. I might give Susan the night off so that she can go, and spend some time with my daughter."

Leslie prided herself on not meddling in other people's affairs. Truly she did, but here, she couldn't help herself. Honestly, if they couldn't resolve this on their own, _someone_ had to give them a little push. "You could ask her, you know."

It didn't take Gilbert too long - if at all - to figure out whom she meant. "Why would I?" he slumped in his chair, "she's in love with Owen Ford. They'll be going together."

Leslie stood, towering above him at her full height as she gave him a small smile. "Dr. Blythe, if I can assure you of one thing, it is that Anne Shirley is certainly _not_ in love with Owen Ford."

Gilbert sat stock-still in his chair, his mind spinning like a turtle left on its back. So Anne wasn't being courted by Owen Ford, if Mrs. Moore was to be believed. And since she knew Anne better than anyone else, he had a feeling he ought to hear her out. He gestured weakly to the examination table. "Please, have a seat again, Mrs. Moore. I'd very much like to hear anything else you might be able to tell me."

Leslie gave him a searching gaze before slowly letting herself back down on the table. "Dr. Blythe, I won't say too much. Anne is my friend, one of the few I have - and it would be a disservice to her if I simply divulged three months' worth of business between you. "

"Mrs. Moore - " he was ready to tell her that he had known her more than half his life, that they had gone to school together, that he had wanted to marry her - but she simply continued, apparently not hearing him.

"What I can and will tell you, however, is that you have hurt her deeply, Dr. Blythe. I would strongly suggest that you make amends."

"How?"

She stood, heading for the door. "Oh, I'm sure you can think of something. And may I suggest an apology?" She nodded before sailing out the door. "Good day, Dr. Blythe."

* * *

Anne sat in the armchair in her room, her feet tucked up under her and a notebook on her knee. A cup of tea was carefully balancing on the windowsill, long gone cold. But Anne ignored it and everything around her, scribbling away at the notebook with a pencil - she always did when she had these attacks of inspiration, because having to refill her pen broke her train of thought, which was currently being transferred to the notebook as quickly as her fingers could manage.

She had been struck with the idea earlier in the day, and it had taken all her willpower not to sit down in the middle of English lessons and start writing. As it was, she had given her students the assignment to read the excerpts of _Mansfield Park_ provided in their readers, and write an essay on Fanny Price's morals. When silence reigned supreme in the room, she took out her own notebook and started jotting down names, places, plot elements, and a rough outline. She would have continued, had Lettie Brewster - wearing rather long skirts for her age - pointed out that they were five minutes over the end of class. Anne had hastily collected their essays, to be graded later that evening, and dismissed them, following them outside and turning towards her house, still scratching away at her notebook. She walked straight past Owen, who was standing in front of the school waiting for her; the latter grinned, recognizing the look on her face as one he had sported many times before, and knowing it would probably be useless to attempt conversation. He simply waved, and set off on his own for home.

And so it came to be that Anne was curled up in her chair, her pencil slowly wearing down to a stub as pages filled with the beginnings of a story. It was entirely likely that Anne would have stayed in her chair, scratching away until she either fell asleep or ran out of pencil, had the bell at the door not given a sharp peal.

It took three pulls on the bell for her to realize that she was being interrupted. Slowly coming out of her dream-world, she laid the notebook down and tucked the pencil securely into her twist of hair, before spilling herself out of her chair, cat-like, and descending the stairs. She opened the front door - and there, on her front step, stood Gilbert Blythe.

"G - Dr. Blythe," she greeted him warily, wondering exactly what his reasons for visiting might be. "Is Joy all right?"

"Good afternoon, Anne," he said quietly, trying to shore up the courage to say more. "Joy - Joy's fine. I…"

Anne looked at him curiously. The teacher in her was recognizing all the signs of a small child who wanted to confess his sins, but wasn't entirely certain where to start. "You…?" she tried to encourage him. She was feeling slightly peeved that her writing had been interrupted, and by _Gilbert Blythe_ , of all people. He had spent the past three months ignoring her-why did he come _now_ , when she was writing? Couldn't it have kept until, say, tomorrow?

"I'd like to apologize."

"You would?" Anne asked blankly. He'd come to apologize? Well, this she wanted to hear. She gestured to the swing hanging from the porch ceiling. "Have a seat, then. This could take some time."

He joined her, his feet automatically pushing away from the floorboards, making them swing gently back and forth. "In February, I said something that I probably shouldn't have said."

Anne made a little noise in the back of her throat that meant she clearly agreed.

"And then, without giving you a chance to explain or refute anything, I proceeded to try to cut you out of my life. I realize now that that was a mistake of nearly disastrous proportions. I've been more miserable these past months than I was at Convocation…"

"So you've come to alleviate your misery?" Anne asked sharply. Realizing that she had sounded quite harsh (and rather like a certain Katherine Brooke), she tried to soften her tone. "Gilbert, I - "

"Let me apologize, and then you can give me the deafening set-down I deserve," he smiled slightly, "as I was saying, I tried to cut you out of my life - and I tried to hurt you. And for that, more than anything else, I am sorry. I...I…"

 _Love you._

He looked off, toward the road, his lips pressed into a thin line, as though he were trying to keep himself in check.

Anne cocked her head. "Are you quite finished?" He nodded. "Well, then."

"Gilbert Blythe," she began, "while it is true that you hurt me, you aren't the only one who needs to apologize for past wrongs. I don't think I ever apologized for the first five years of our relationship. I never quite understood what you had to endure those five years, until you refused to speak to me in February. I made it through three months of of what you had to stand five years of - and Gilbert, if your treatment of me was anything like my treatment of you...well, then, I believe I have much to atone for."

He shook his head. "Don't, Anne. Let's just agree that we've done some regrettable things, and agree to start anew."

Anne chuckled. "Two such equally horrible individuals such as ourselves _must_ remain friends, after all." Her hand stole out and linked with his, giving him a small squeeze of reassurance.

"Birds of a feather and all that," Gilbert stood up, pulling her with him. "I have to go now - Susan will probably have my head if I don't come back in time for supper."

"Well, then I'll release you," Anne let go of his hand, remaining at the top of the steps while she watched him stroll down the lane. "Good night, Gil."

"Good night, Anne."

She watched him until he disappeared around the bend in the road. And even then, she could still hear his whistling. When the final strains of _Farewell to Nova Scotia_ had faded into the evening, she turned back and went into the house, to her cold tea and ungraded essays.

* * *

"Well, Dr. dear, _you're_ certainly in a good humor this evening," remarked Susan as she transferred a helping of chicken from the serving platter to Gilbert's plate.

"I...had a good day at work," he offered by way of an answer. In truth, it was what had happened _after_ work that had cheered him the most, but he'd had a decent day at the office as well.

"You cured Jamie Cameron of measles last year, Dr. dear - _that_ was a good day at work, but you weren't half as glad then," Susan informed him. She remembered these sorts of things, after all. "You were whistling when you came in. Why, I haven't heard you do that since, well…" here Susan trailed off, in an effort to remember when exactly it had been that Dr. dear had whistled. Suffice it to say that it had been some time since. Not that she was complaining, of course. It wouldn't be Christian to - and it certainly was nicer when the Dr. dear was in a good mood.

Later that evening, as he was tucking Joy into bed, Gilbert saw her eyes open in sleepy half-slits. "Papa?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Are you and Miss Shirley friends again?"

 _How on Earth did the child know?_ "What makes you say that?"

"Your eyes were smiling again, Papa. The way they do after you speak with Miss Shirley."

Confound it all, the child would be a psychologist someday if she continued this way, thought Gilbert. "Well then, you would be right, sweetheart."

He sat next to her little bed as her breaths became slower and more even, and when he was certain she was asleep, he blew out the candle on the table beside the bed. Rising from his chair, he tiptoed to the door, and was about to step into the hall, when -

"Papa - are you going to marry Miss Shirley?"

Had he not had a hand already holding onto the doorjamb, Gilbert might have slid to the floor. _Maybe, if I keep very, very still_ , he thought…

Holding his breath, he waited for her breaths to even out again before slipping noiselessly out of her room. In the hallway, he leaned his head against the papered wall, slowly letting out the breath he had been holding inside Joy's room.

 _Papa - are you going to marry Miss Shirley?_

"I hope so, Joy," he breathed, "I certainly hope so."

* * *

Anne wrestled with a thorny mass of climbing roses just beginning to show hints of leaves. It seemed that the moment she tied one stalk to the trellis, another would slowly peel away from it and fall back to the ground. She had already pulled two thorns out of her thumb, had countless scratches on her forearms, and a gash in her dress where a falling stalk had neatly avoided her gardening apron and attached itself to her skirt, tearing it.

No, thought Anne as she surveyed the mangled rose plant, she did not have Marilla's green thumb.

"Anne?"

Leslie entered the garden, surveyed the botanical carnage, and shook her head sadly. "Well, maybe _some_ of it can be salvaged," she announced. "Would you like a hand with it?"

Anne grasped the offer gratefully. "Yes, please, Leslie. It seems that no sooner do I tie up one bunch, that another falls back down again. I've been pricked and poked until I resemble a pincushion, and I am considering simply abandoning this devil's plant to grow rampant around my garden."

"There's no need to worry about that," Leslie informed her, stepping around a severed stalk and picking it up gingerly before discarding it, "I think you may have killed most of it. But let's tie up what we can and clip what we can't, and go have a cup of tea when we've finished. It would seem that you've earned it," she added, taking in Anne's rather dishevelled appearance.

Many hands made light work, especially as two of those hands were Leslie's, well practiced in the art of tying up roses, and the two soon found themselves on the porch, with a steaming pot of tea between them.

Leslie regarded her sprained wrist with a rueful eye. _No strenuous work_ , Dr. Blythe had said. And here she was, tying up roses with Anne. Turning her wrist slightly, she conceded that she might need to apply a second poultice that day.

Realizing that moping about her wrist would do her no good, she sought out the reason she had left home to seek out Anne. "Anne?"

"Hmmm?" Anne was gazing off into the distance, more aptly termed the tip of the schoolhouse belltower, and stirring her tea absently.

"Are you going to the dance on Saturday?"

"The dance...oh, the dance," Anne's mind returned to join them on the porch, "no. I wasn't asked. You?" She noted that a faint blush had now spread across Leslie's porcelain cheeks.

"I...was. Mr. Ford asked me, and I accepted."

Anne gave a small hum of humor. " Gossip will fly," she informed her.

 _That_ was what Leslie had been waiting for the entire time. "Well, to make it all proper, and to at least put a slight damper on the gossip, would you be willing to chaperone?"

"Chaperone?" Anne laughed aloud. "How would I be an effective chaperone, you goose? I'm younger than both of you, and far too sympathetic to you two. No, Leslie, I am certainly _not_ a good choice for chaperone."

"Which is why you're really considered the ideal chaperone by those being chaperoned," laughed Leslie. "But really, Anne, you ought to come. I'll drag you along if I have to."

"Oh, very well," Anne grinned. "Mrs. Moore, you have yourself a chaperone."

* * *

On Friday morning, Gilbert looked out into his waiting room for the third time. The Glen St. Mary folk had been strangely healthy that week, and the evening before, he had actually closed the surgery early. Now, he sat in his revolving chair, slowly turning lazy circles. He had cleaned out his dispensary, re-filed his card catalogue, and reorganized his medical bookshelves.

There was, quite simply, nothing left for him to do.

He was all ready to simply close up shop, go home, and wait for anyone with an emergency to call him there - and was, in fact, writing a sign to tack up on the door, "Doctor gone home due to lack of work," - when a now familiar golden head came up the walk and entered the waiting room.

"Ah, Mrs. Moore!" Gilbert greeted her more enthusiastically than he did most patients, but considering that she was the first person to come through that door in over a day, he thought that might be excused. "And how are you this morning?"

Leslie gave him a bemused glance. "Quite well, thank you. I've come for some more clay - I used the last of it yesterday."

"Lovely, lovely," Gilbert was humming - yes, _humming_ \- as he measured out another pound of clay. "While you are here, Mrs. Moore, I might as well take another look at that wrist, if you don't mind?"

Leslie unbuttoned the glove and extended her wrist for further examination. Gilbert determined that the sprain - which had indeed been a sprain - had healed some, although…"Mrs. Moore, have you been resting this wrist?"

A slightly guilty flush crossed her cheeks. "Work won't do itself, you know. And...I helped Anne put up some roses yesterday."

He nodded. "And how is she?"

Leslie nodded. "Better than when I last saw her, certainly. Although it _did_ come to my attention that she had not been asked to the dance. Why would that be, Dr. Blythe?" She waved away the question. "Never mind. She is going, though, so if I might entreat you to make an appearance at the lighthouse tomorrow evening…"

"I'll certainly be there," Gilbert could not contain a smile at Leslie's matchmaking efforts, "unless an epidemic breaks out in the Glen. And with the current state of health in this village, I find that highly doubtful. So yes, Mrs. Moore, I believe you may count on my attendance." He handed her the sack of clay, "And do please keep off that wrist. If you don't, I shall be forced to put it in a splint."

The look she gave him could have chipped ice. But her face quickly relaxed into a smile. "Very well, then, Doctor. Miss Shirley and I will see you tomorrow evening. Good day." And with that, she swept out of the surgery in that regal way that only Leslie Moore could.

* * *

Anne knelt in front of her trunk, working carefully to extract a filmy green gown from its depths. It was one she had not worn in some time, having spent the past few years without too many dances to go to. But it was still a lovely dress, with lace at the arms and the wide neckline, and if she wasn't mistaken, there was also a set of shoes that went with it.

Once arrayed in her finery, her ruddy coils of hair piled on her head, and her white shoes on her feet, she surveyed herself in the mirror. Well, she was no fairy princess, to be sure, but even she could admit that she looked quite nice...even if her dress had no puffed sleeves.

The bell rang, and she hurried down the steps to meet Leslie and Owen, who had, in keeping with her role as pseudo-chaperone, offered to take her to and from the dance. Leslie, Anne noticed, was wearing a fine white muslin gown with a splash of red silk poppies at the waist, echoed by the ones twisted into her hair. Owen, it seemed, was unable to take his eyes off her - not that _that_ was a particularly rare event, either - and Anne fervently hoped that the horse pulling the buggy knew the way on its own, for if it had been counting on any help from Owen, it would soon be quite hopelessly lost.

Greetings were exchanged, Anne was helped into the buggy, and soon the party set out for Captain Jim's lighthouse, to dance in the merry month of May.

* * *

At Ingleside, things were slightly, although not much, calmer. Gilbert came downstairs in his good suit, was exclaimed over by both daughter and housekeeper, who both declared that a finer-dressed man had not ever set foot in the house before. He swung Joy onto his hip and waltzed her around the parlor until she giggled helplessly against his shoulder. Then, he set her down, and she wound her arms around his knees.

"Papa, when can I go with you?"

"In a few years," he told her, crouching down. As he looked into her violet eyes, he realized that at some point in the not all-too-distant future, he would be beating boys off with sticks, and briefly considered getting a dog. Shaking his head at himself, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Now, go with Susan. I'll come tuck you in when I get home."

"Promise?"

"Always."

Susan clucked from where she stood, framed in the door. "And have you ever known Dr. dear to break a promise, child? Come, now, we'll go make a pie."

Greatly cheered at the prospects of pie and Susan, Joy gave Gilbert one last kiss on the cheek before disappearing into the kitchen with the housekeeper.

Standing up, Gilbert went to his desk and rummaged in the top drawer until he found what he wanted. Slipping the little, yellowed piece of paper into his pocket, he carefully closed the drawer before leaving the house. Then, he stepped off the porch and down the lane, towards the lighthouse, where the light was already burning brightly.

* * *

 _You wouldn't believe how glad I am to get this chapter out into the world. Nor would you believe the alternate possibilities I had come up with for this chapter (one that comes to mind is a variation where Leslie and Gilbert went together, and a slightly heartbroken Anne and Owen partner up for the dance. The crossed wires are later uncrossed, untangled, etc., but considering that that plotline confused even me, I abandoned it.) But I have slaved over this chapter, am quite pleased with the outcome, and am even more pleased to be getting it out of my computer and into the great wide world._

 _Thank you to all who commented on the last chapter (I got exactly one notification about a review, and was a tad confused until I looked them up manually. Anne-girls, you will know what I mean when I say 'gremlins' :)_

 _Speaking of gremlins, is anyone else experiencing horrendous alerts from this site, or is it limited to the AoGG section? I don't think so, but thought I might throw it out to see if anyone had an answer besides appeasing the gremlins with large amounts of cotton candy and pralines._

 _And in response to the majority of last week's comments: Yes, Gilbert needs to be given a good shake. And he sort of has._

 _Love, and may your gremlins be soon taken care of,_

 _Anne_


	20. All In The Cards

_Boats were coming down from the Harbour Head and across the harbour from the western side. Everywhere there was laughter. The big white tower on Four Winds Point was overflowing with light, while its revolving beacon flashed overhead.*_ Outside, the pavilion was beginning to fill up with dancers and the music of a few fiddles and a piano which had somehow miraculously been dragged out of the lighthouse for its yearly night _al fresco_.

All this Anne saw as she alighted from the buggy, along with Captain Jim, who came at them to greet them.

"Miss Shirley! How good it is to see you - and Mistress Moore, as well. Good evening to you, my boy," he added to Owen, "I do hope I'll be seeing that book of yours sometime."

"You and Miss Shirley will get the first copies," Owen promised him, shaking his hand before taking Leslie's arm and leading her to the pavilion, leaving Anne with Captain Jim.

"So," the captain said, "playing the chaperone tonight, are we, Miss Shirley?"

Anne gave a small laugh as she watched Leslie and Owen make their respective bows and curtsies before joining the other dancers. "I'd like to think so," she informed him, "but Leslie told me that I was the 'ideal chaperone'. Meaning that I was far too sympathetic to those I was supposed to be chaperoning...and I suppose I am. After all, _look_ at them!"

Captain Jim followed her gaze, nodding in agreement. Truly, a more graceful couple could not be found dancing there that evening. "Reckon they'll make a go of it, Miss Shirley?"

"I'm...I'm not sure," and truth be told, she _wasn't_. "I certainly hope so. From what I've heard, the late Mr. Moore was not a kind man - and Leslie deserves a bit of happiness, don't you think?"

"Aye, she does," Captain Jim nodded again. "That she does, and the boy too. They'll be happy together...if they ever manage to see that they're a fine match."

" _He's_ certainly seen it," Anne leaned towards the Captain conspiratorially, a small smile playing across her lips. "Leslie...well, I certainly hope she will. But," she shook her head in wry amusement, "my role this evening is to make sure that _neither_ of them makes that discovery too soon."

"Indeed, Miss Shirley, indeed," Captain Jim offered her his arm, "I do believe that as host, it is my duty to dance with every beautiful woman in attendance. Shall we make a go of it?" he gestured at the pavillion, where the current dance was concluding, and the dancers applauded the musicians.

"Why, Captain Jim, I thought you'd never ask," Anne's rosy lips tilted upwards as she took the proffered arm. "Indeed, we shall."

* * *

Gilbert stood at the edge of the pavillion, watching the dancers swirl around in front of him. He had missed the first dance, although he calculated that he must not have missed much of the second one, as the band was still playing "civilized" music, as they did earlier in the evening. Only later, once everyone had gotten themselves nicely warmed up, would the concertinas, bodhrans, and whistles make their first appearance.

Gilbert looked over the heads of the dancers in front of him, looking for an auburn one. And there it was - Anne was on the taller side, and her hair stood out above the mixture of brunettes and blondes that made up much of Glen St. Mary's population.

The dancers parted a bit, giving him a view of Anne's partner - Captain Jim. He watched them dance, a bit more sedate than their neighbors, and saw Anne tilt her head back and laugh at something the Captain had said, her milky skin glowing in the light of the candles and lamps that had been placed in every nook and cranny of the pavillion.

It took quite a bit of restraint for Gilbert not to walk onto the dance floor, tap Captain Jim on the shoulder, and ask to "cut in". Two things kept him from doing so. The first was the knowledge that gossip would fly, and likely reach Avonlea by the next morning. The second was that Anne was enjoying herself - and he saw no need to deprive her of that. He had been raised a gentleman, and a gentleman could certainly wait his turn.

But the moment Anne concluded her dance with Captain Jim, she was surrounded by men seeking a dance with her. Once the dust had cleared, Gilbert stepped up to Anne, clearing his throat before tapping her on the shoulder.

"Carrots?"

* * *

"Carrots?"

Anne turned to look up into the face of Gilbert Blythe. "Gil." _Couldn't she come up with something a little more brilliant than that?_

Something flashed in his eyes. "Well, you didn't hit me over the head with your dance card," he grinned. "And speaking of dance cards, may I have the next waltz?"

Anne felt a small stab of regret. "I'm terribly sorry, Gil - but they've all been taken." She showed him the card, which bore the signatures of a good many Glen sons.

"What a pity," he scrutinized the card, checking the filled spots.

Anne nodded. "I'm terribly sorry. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have saved you a spot or two…"

But Gilbert was shaking his head. And if Anne wasn't mistaken, there was a glint in his eye she recognized from days of old, when he'd had something - sometimes _several_ somethings - up his sleeve. "Oh, no," he said calmly, "I was going to say what a pity for _them_."

She smacked his arm gently. "Gilbert Blythe, what do you mean? A pity for them?"

"Because it would seem that I have the prior claim."

And with that, he produced a small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, yellowed with age, the corners slightly curled, and a lightly frayed cord dangling from it, presenting it to her with a small smirk on his face. As though in a dream, Anne reached for it, catching it with the tips of her fingers before bringing it closer to a lamp so that she could read it better.

 _Winter Ball_

 _White Sands Hotel_

 _12th December, 1879_

 _Waltz / Moody Spurgeon MacPherson_

 _Two-Step / Fred Wright_

 _Quadrille / James White_

 _Polka / Abner Shaw_

 _Waltz / Charles Sloane_

 _Waltz / Miller Bowman_

 _Intermission_

 _Polka /_

 _Waltz /_

 _Gigue / Gilbert Blythe_

 _Waltz / Gilbert Blythe_

These two were written in a schoolboy's careful hand. But underneath, the line corresponding with the last waltz was occupied by the same name, and yet the signature was entirely different. It was more of a scrawl now, rather than the smooth line of letters that it had been at age sixteen. But the hand that had written them was the same.

 _Waltz / Gilbert Blythe_

"My dance card," Anne said, no more than a whisper. _Her dance card_ , from the White Sands Ball all those years ago. He'd kept it all this time... She looked up at him, her large grey eyes luminous. "Diana did always swear that you'd stolen it."

"Hmmm…" he considered the charge. "Not so much stolen as picked it up when you dropped it."

She regarded him archly. "I did not come here to discuss semantics, Dr. Blythe. But by all means, _do_ call it what you like. My answer will not change."

"And that answer would be?" he asked quietly, barely daring to look her in the eye.

"Well…" she drew it out, and he realized that she was teasing him, "you _do_ have the prior claim."

With that, she slipped her current card off her wrist and placed it on the pavillion rail. In its place, she slipped the frayed cord of the fourteen-year-old dance card.

Smiling shyly up at him, she took his arm. "Well then, Gilbert Blythe. Shall we dance?"

Gilbert felt a laugh bubble up, and swept her into his arms, leading her into the center of the dance floor. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

An hour later - maybe two? - the pair made their way through the trees surrounding the pavillion and lighthouse. Neither spoke, both of them content to simply _be_ together. They turned towards the rocks, popular with couples for their view over the harbor which tonight reflected the silvery whiteness of an almost-full moon.

They sat, Anne wrapping her shawl around herself to keep off the slight breeze coming off the water. It was, she thought, rather like those stories she had made up in her Story Club days: the hero and heroine by the shore under a full moon, drinking in the beauty of their surroundings and the exquisite stillness of the night, Leslie and Owen further down on the rocks -

One moment please, dear reader - Leslie and Owen? On the rocks? Anne leaned forward a little, and there they were, not fifteen feet from where Anne and Gilbert sat. Anne strained her eyes - yes, unless she was very much mistaken, Owen's arm was about Leslie's waist...and it appeared to have been there for some time.

"Oh, good heavens," she whispered.

Gilbert switched his gaze from the slim hand entwined with his to her face. "Is something the matter?"

What he saw was to glittering eyes, and a mouth pressed into a thin line. "There," she nodded to the couple a little ways from them. "Owen and Leslie."

Gilbert squinted. "So it is."

Anne turned to him with a look of exasperation on her face. "And _I_ am supposed to be chaperoning them!" She rubbed the tip of her nose energetically. "What am I supposed to do? Do I interrupt them? Leave them be? Wait for him to propose, _then_ interrupt?"

"You could always wait for the wedding," Gilbert suggested, " _then_ interrupt. 'Speak now, or forever hold your peace.'"

"This is serious, Gil - wait a moment, did you hear anything?" She put up a hand, silencing him. The breeze had shifted, bringing with it snatches of the conversation further down the rocks. Too faint to be understood, the murmurs could have belonged to the sea, had they not had a very human cadence to them

But here the wind shifted again, snatching the conversation away from their ears.

"What am I to do?" thought Anne, not realizing that she had also asked the question aloud.

"Well, if I were you," offered Gilbert, "I'd think of whatever Mrs. Lynde would do - and then do the complete opposite." But suddenly it was _his_ ears that pricked up at the sound of familiar words.

"Oh, fairest of the fair...oh, loveliest of women…"

"The cad," muttered Gilbert. "Why, I heard him saying that to - "

Had Anne's head whipped around a greater speed, she might have required a brace. As it was, it made a slight cracking sound as she turned to face him. Standing abruptly, she clambered back to the steps cut into the rock before picking up her skirts and making her way to the top, leaving him to follow her. Which he did, with one last glance back at the couple on the rocks below.

* * *

Once Gilbert had caught up with Anne, in a puddle of light cast by the pavillion, she turned to him.

"Very well, Gilbert Blythe. You will explain exactly _when_ you heard those words. Now, if you please." Anne's eyes practically glowed green in this light as she stared at him, one eyebrow slowly rising higher and higher.

Gilbert shook his head. "Well, it's all a bit silly, really. On Easter, I came by to try to mend fences, but I heard - and saw - _him_ saying those words...to _you_."

"And it never occured to you that they might be meant for someone else?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Generally - and please remember that my experience in these matters is extremely limited - but when a man makes speeches like that, he doesn't say them to another woman _to practice_."

She sighed. "Isn't that _just_ like a man?" she said, sounding very Miss Cornelia-ish. "I see your point," she conceded, "but had you observed Owen and Leslie at any point prior to that, you might have noticed that he has eyes for no one else."

"I was too - "

Gilbert was interrupted by a call from the pavillion. "And the next dance, ladies and gentlemen, is a reel!"

Anne's head turned towards the call. "Should we?"

"I haven't danced a reel in years, Anne!" he laughed as she pulled him onto the lawn.

"Neither have I!" She informed him blithely as the first fiddle started up, joined by a whistle and drum. "Just one dance," she said, "and then I'll perform my duties as chaperone and go break up the happy couple."

Gilbert tapped his foot to catch the rhythm of the song, and soon the two were dancing to the lively strains of _Musical Priest_.

In doubletime.

* * *

While a certain doctor and principal danced under the revolving beacon of the Four Winds lighthouse, another couple sat on the shore, looking at the trail left by the moon on the sea. Leslie and Owen were still, so very still, each afraid to break the silence that had fallen over them.

Owen cleared his throat softly. "Have you heard the tale of the schoolmaster's bride?"

Leslie shook her head. "I've heard _of_ her, of course - anyone who's lived within walking distance of Captain Jim has - but I've never heard the story."

Owen looked out over the water, his poet's soul far, far away. "Her name was Persis Leigh, and she was my grandmother. She was the bride of John Selwyn, the schoolmaster here in Glen St. Mary. He'd come over from Ireland to teach - and was, according to Captain Jim at least, one of the better ones - and once he'd built her a house, and the entire village had helped furnish it, he sent for her.

"She was to come across on the _Royal William_ , which set sail on June 20th, and was due to arrive mid-July. But July came, and July went, and the ship did not arrive. By then, most men would have given up hope that their sweetheart would come to them - but not John Selwyn. He _knew_ that she would come to him; John, you see, had the gift of sight, and every day he would come out to the Point and stand staring out to sea, waiting for the ship to come out of the mist. When school started again, in September, he taught like a man in a dream, and spent his nights at the point, watching for his love to return to him.

"Eight weeks after the _Royal William_ had been due to sail into port, there was a storm that lasted three days and nights. On the dawn of the fourth day, John Selwyn had a vision of the _Royal William_ sailing around the East Point. And indeed it did - the next day, the ship sailed into Four Winds Harbor, with Persis Leigh aboard. She and John were married that night, in the house that he had built, and there they lived for about fifteen years. Happy years, full of love, I'm told."

A dreamy look he rarely - if ever - saw, crossed Leslie's face. "Do you think he really did see the ship coming around the Point?"

 _"God knows," said_ Owen _softly. "Great love and great pain might compass we know not what marvels."_

 _"I am sure he did see it," said_ Leslie _earnestly.**_

"Do you know which house they lived in?" he asked.

Leslie considered the question for a moment. "Anne's cottage, perhaps?"

Owen nodded. "That's the one. Persis planted the roses that bloom there, every year in the late summer. I've never seen them, but someday I hope to."

"I've seen them," Leslie said, her voice quiet, "they are like nothing else in this world."

"Do you have a favorite?"

 _"I love the red roses," Leslie said. "Anne likes the pink and the white one best, though. But I want the crimson ones. They satisfy some craving in me as no other flower does."_

 _"The rose is the flower of love-the world has acclaimed it so for centuries. The pink roses are love hopeful and expectant-the white roses are love dead or forsaken - but the red roses - ah, Leslie, what are the red roses?"_

 _"Love triumphant," said Leslie in a low voice._

 _"Yes - love triumphant and perfect. Leslie, you know - you understand. I have loved you from the first. And I know you love me - I don't need to ask you. But I want to hear you say it - my darling - my darling!"_

 _Leslie said something in a very low and tremulous voice. Their hands and lips met; it was life's supreme moment for them and as they**_ sat on the wind- and wave-smoothed rocks, the rocks where John Selwyn had waited for his love all those years ago.

* * *

One dance became two, which became three, and by the time a rousing rendition of _Paddy Taylor's_ had concluded, Anne's hair had slipped free of its pins, and there was a figure-eight shaped ditch in Captain Jim's lawn.

"Good heavens," Anne leaned against one of the pavillion posts and gasped for breath, "I haven't danced that way in years!"

Next to her, equally winded, Gilbert nodded his head in mute agreement.

Suddenly, Anne's hand flew to her cheek. "Oh - oh, I forgot about Leslie and Owen!" Ignoring her aching lungs and throbbing feet, she practically flew towards the shore. She realized that she'd neglected her - admittedly half-baked - status as chaperone, but it was better late than never, wasn't it?

And there they were, still sitting on the rocks, Leslie's head on Owen's shoulder, his lips touching her golden hair. It appeared that Anne was indeed too late.

"Leslie," Anne called out to her, choosing to ignore all this, "the last dance is about to begin, if you and Mr. Ford would like to dance it." In fact, she had absolutely no idea if the last dance had yet to come, had already gone, or was underway, but if it got them off the rocks and out of gossip's way, so much the better.

The couple came up the steps cut into the cliff, and as they neared her, Anne realized that the dreamy look in Leslie's eyes was one she had seen in Phil's when she had married the Reverend Jo, Diana's when she had become engaged to Fred, and (though she was loathe to admit this) a little like Hazel Marr - pardon, Hazel _Garland_ now.

That look said all that Anne needed to know. Realizing that she had indeed been the chaperonee's idea of a perfect chaperone, she quietly resigned herself to future scandal...as much as could happen in the Glen, at least.

"Did you have a nice time?" she enquired calmly.

The couple's broad smiles told her everything she needed to know.

* * *

Congratulations were issued, and the happy couple was fairly incandescent by the time all had been said and done.

"Will you be going out West, after all?" Anne asked Owen quietly.

He shook his head. "No...I think I'll look for something on the Island, maybe in Four Winds," Owen shrugged, unable to keep his eyes off Leslie, who was receiving a ceremonial kiss on the cheek from Captain Jim.

Leslie came back to them, happiness radiating off of her in waves. Anne stepped away from Owen, giving them a bit of room. "Well, I'd be happy to recommend you for a permanent post here, if you'd like," she said.

"Miss Shirley," he said earnestly, "that would be the most wonderful thing in the world."

* * *

Owen had taken the buggy ahead, Gilbert had said his goodbyes before setting out on foot for Ingleside, and the two women strolled down the moonlight-dappled lane.

 _"Anne, my happiness frightens me," whispered Leslie. "It seems too great to be real-I'm afraid to speak of it-to think of it. It seems to me that it must just be another dream and it will vanish **_ when I return home."

 _"Oh, Leslie-I know-and I'm so glad, dear," she said, putting her arm about her._ "But speaking of home, what will happen now? I admit that I failed in my duties as chaperone - or was wildly successful, depending how you look at it - but even I can tell you that he can _not_ board with you anymore."

"Owen will move down to the hotel tomorrow," Leslie said. "It's more expensive than boarding, to be sure, but even _my_ reputation for oddity couldn't take the blow of our living together during our engagement." She gave a little laugh. "It's bad enough that I was his landlady!"

"You know," Anne said, "I am going back to Green Gables at the end of May, to spend the summer. Owen could have my cottage, free of charge, until you two marry."

They strolled on in silence, until presently, Anne said, "Do you think that everything happens for a reason? Every moment of our lives happened so that we could find ourselves in the present, as we are…" she trailed off, thoughts overtaking her.

 _"Do you remember, Anne," said Leslie slowly, "that I once said-that night we met on the shore-that I hated my good looks? I did-then. It always seemed to me that if I had been homely Dick would never have thought of me. I hated my beauty because it had attracted him, but now-oh, I'm glad that I have it. It's all I have to offer Owen,-his artist soul delights in it. I feel as if I do not come to him quite empty-handed."_

 _"Owen loves your beauty, Leslie. Who would not? But it's foolish of you to say or think that that is all you bring him. He will tell you that-I needn't.**_ But it isn't only your beauty that he loves, dear. It's also your character and your strength underneath that made him fall in love with you. Looks on their own do nothing. It's what's underneath that counts."

* * *

"Letter came for you, Dr. dear," Susan informed him later the next week, as he entered the kitchen to investigate what smelled suspiciously like freshly baked currant buns, "I've put it on your desk."

Snatching up a warm roll, and narrowly avoiding getting his knuckles rapped by Susan's long-handled wooden spoon, Gilbert strolled to his study, picking up the envelope on his desk and slitting it open with a letter opener.

Two sheets of paper slipped out, covered in his mother's schoolteacher's handwriting:

 _Dear Gilbert,_

 _I hope you are well. I haven't received a letter from you in a month, and as such, have no way of knowing whether you are. I suppose if anything had happened to you, I would have heard it from Rachel Lynde, who would have gotten it from Marilla Cuthbert, who would have gotten it from Anne, but I'd rather hear from you than get my news fourth-hand. Things do tend to get lost that way, and knowing Mrs. Lynde, things tend to get embellished a little._

 _But I am actually writing to ask you for a favor. Gilbert, I haven't seen much of Joy in her short life, and I would dearly love it if she could come spend a few weeks in early June with your father and myself. You know how Avonlea is in the summer, and I think that I know Joy well enough to know that she would love it as much as you do. What do you say, Gilbert? Could you send her up after school lets out for the year? She'll be well taken care of, and I think it would do both of you good to take some time away from the Glen. I've already sent a letter to your Uncle Dave, and he agrees with me - he said something about your not seeming yourself this spring. What you need is some coddling, fresh air, and most importantly - family._

 _Write me when you know of the best time, and I'll come up on the train to accompany her back to Avonlea, if you'd like. Or perhaps you'd like to do so yourself? Either way, my granddaughter will come visit me, Gilbert. End of discussion, my dear._

 _All my love,_

 _Mother._

Gilbert smiled, then pulled a sheet of letter paper to him and dipped his pen in the inkwell.

 _Dear Ma,_

 _All is well…_

* * *

 _*Rilla of Ingleside_

 _**Anne's House of Dreams_

 _And that, folks, was the big two-oh. I was (granted, as usual) a little nervous about sending this one out into the world, because I wanted it to feel like a coherent chapter, not the mess of words it felt like an hour ago. It is no longer as messy, but that might just be because I've been staring at it so long that I'm afraid it makes sense only to me._

 _I am also sad to say that we are probably three to four (five, maybe?) chapters from wrapping this up. I've got the rest planned out - although granted, with me, "planning" is a very loose term - and I can promise any of the following: more Avonlea, more Mrs. Lynde (because who doesn't love Mrs. Lynde?) more Mrs. Blythe, and a touch of Hester Gray._

 _Love,  
Anne_


	21. East, West, Hame's Best

"And so, after spending a year as your teacher and principal, I can certainly attest that you are some of the brightest, the most imaginative, and most committed students on Prince Edward Island. You have all been a joy to teach, and I look forward to seeing you all again in the fall. Now, do _try_ not to forget everything I've taught you while I'm away, but we'll clear the cobwebs off everything together in September, won't we?"

Anne walked down the aisle of her classroom on the afternoon of the last day of school, her pupils' eyes trained on her as she gave her end-of-year speech. Once she had reached the front of the room, she turned to them, her eyes shining. "I will give you one piece of homework - " The class groaned, " - and that is to have _fun_. Learn as much about ordinary things as you can over the next three months. Because as a professor once told me:

 _~There are heaps of things you never learn at school.*_

"And with that," she smiled warmly at the classroom full of shining young faces, "class dismissed! May you all have a wonderful summer, my dears."

The words must have held a spark of magic in them, for the moment she spoke them, it was as though a dam broke, letting children flood out of their seats and out the door, giving her their farewells as they passed her.

"Good-bye, Miss Shirley."

"Good-bye, Teacher."

"You're the bestest teacher we've ever had."

To this, Anne, replied, "Why thank you, Alec."

"He's right, Miss Shirley; you're a bully teacher!"

To _this_ , however, "Language, Alonzo."

"Happy Summer, Teacher!"

"Good-bye, Miss Shirley!"

"Good-bye…"

Once the last student had squeezed out of the classroom, to the tune of _No more pencils, no more book, no more teacher's dirty looks,_ Anne wiped the chalkboard down, arranged the chalks in their box, and plucked her sweater off her chair, scooping her books off the desk before carefully locking up her room and descending the stairs into the main hall.

Looking around her, she sighed. Why did it all feel so _final_?

She turned to the small chalkboard which had unfailingly stood in the fall all year long, with a new quote inscribed on it every day. She decided to leave up today's, one she had used on her last day at the Halifax children's asylum:

 _May the road rise up to meet you_

 _May the wind be always at your back_

 _May the Sun shine warm upon your face;_

 _The rains fall soft upon your fields_

 _And until we meet again,_

 _May God hold you in the palm of His hand._

There, she thought, everything was spit-spot-spick-and-span, ready for a summer of sleep. It was funny, she thought, how the earth and school seemed to work in opposite ways: while the world slept in the winter, school was at its busiest; and in the summer, while the world was bursting with life and possibilities, the old schoolhouse slept.

She pondered this as she locked up the school's double doors, nearly stumbling over Gilbert and Joy, who were sitting on the broad steps out front.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed, recovering her balance.

Joy popped up, wreathed in smiles. "I wanted to stay after, Miss Shirley, to give you this," she held out a small bunch of the sweet-smelling, bell-shaped white flowers that grew in profusion around the school.

"Lilies-of-the-valley!" Anne smiled broadly. "How did you know they were my favorites?" Her gaze drifted to Gilbert, who was peering at some hitherto nameless point down the road. "Thank you!" She held them to her nose, drinking in the scent.

The three set off down the road, walking the short distance to Anne's gate, where Anne took her leave of the Blythes, father and daughter.

"Good-bye, Joy - you've done very well this year. I'll be seeing you on Monday at the station, remember," Gilbert had asked her to accompany Joy to Avonlea to visit her grandparents, and Anne, who loved Joy and was leaving on the same train, had gladly agreed.

After giving Anne a last hug, Joy allowed her father to lead her down the lane to Ingleside. _Anne looked after_ them _as_ they _strode away, and sighed. Gilbert was friendly—very friendly—far too friendly. He had come quite often to_ see her lately, _and something of their old comradeship had returned. But Anne no longer found it satisfying. The rose of love made the blossom of friendship pale and scentless by contrast. And Anne had again begun to doubt if Gilbert now felt anything for her but friendship.*_ Watching him and Joy disappear around the bend in the road, she wondered why it was only once it had been taken away from them, that a body finally realized what they needed.

* * *

" _Just imagine—this time_ tomorrow _I'll be in Avonlea—delightful thought!"*_ said Anne, reclining in a queenly manner in her wicker chair, her legs stretched out in front of her. Leslie, who had barely avoided a collision with Anne's outflung arm, quickly transferred her teacup to the table.

Miss Cornelia looked at her in a manner which could only be described as one of exasperated amusement. "Anne dearie, you have been saying a variation of that every day for a week now. You can't be so eager to leave us, can you?"

"No, Miss Cornelia, not at all - but I _am_ very eager to see Marilla and Mrs. Rachel and the twins, Miss Lavendar and Paul - although Paul may not be home this summer, I heard he was going to the States soon - and Diana and her children - who will soon be three in number...no, I am not eager to leave you, Miss Cornelia, but I will be very glad to get home."

Miss Cornelia reached over and patted her hand. "Not to worry, dearie; _East, west, hame's best_."

"True, true," said Anne, sitting up - careful to avoid any collisions with people or their beverages - "Leslie, have you and Owen decided on a date for your wedding yet?"

The woman who had once been compared to a _sea queen, with ropes of amethysts in her hair****_ gave a small, rather self-satisfied smile. It was the smile of someone who was content with herself and the world around her, possibly for the first time in her life. "July."

"That's quick," remarked Miss Cornelia, "in my day, a couple had to be engaged at least a year before they were deemed ready to marry. People will talk, my dear...it's awful quick, and you being his landlady…"

Anne leaned over to Leslie. "She'll try to convince you to have a three year engagement next," she mock-whispered.

" _Three_ years?" Leslie's eyebrows rose. "Goodness, gracious."

"A trifle long," Miss Cornelia admitted, "but 'least it quells gossip."

"Miss Cornelia," asked Leslie, "have you ever _known_ a couple to be engaged for three years?"

"Well, _no_ ," Miss Cornelia admitted again, "but…"

"My point is prov'd," Anne said with an air of finality. "No couple would be depraved enough to undergo a three-year engagement."

* * *

Anne had been fully prepared to walk to the station on Monday morning, and was on her front porch, hanging the house key on its nail for Owen to find when he became the temporary owner of the house late that day, when a buggy containing Gilbert and Joy drew up to her gate.

"Miss Shirley!" Joy waved madly from her seat beside her father, "We thought we could take you to the station with us!"

Anne waved back, stooping down to grasp her carpetbag and valise. "How wonderful of you to do that," she said as she settled onto the bench next to Joy, while Gilbert loaded her bags into the back. Coming back around the buggy, he sat down on the other side of Joy, and took up the reins, flicking the horse gently to get it to move forward.

"My mother will be waiting at Bright River with the buggy," Gilbert, said as he looked ahead between the mare's ears, "she wrote that she will be glad to drive you to Green Gables, if you need it. Apparently she's thrilled that you're accompanying Joy home - seems you're the only one apart from herself and myself that she trusts with Joy."

"What about your father?"

"He wasn't mentioned...but I'm sure she trusts him, too."

They turned on to the main road, which took them through the valley, which last fall had been awash in a blaze of red and gold, was now cloaked in delicate greens, with the early summer wildflowers growing by the side of the road.

Anne pushed her hat back, letting the not-quite-summer sun bathe her face, fully aware that she would pay for this in freckles later. Next to her, Joy did the same, closing her eyes as she blissfully soaked up the warmth of the sun and those who loved her. Was there anything better that taking a buggy ride on a sunny morning, sitting between her father and Miss Shirley? No, she thought, there was not.

* * *

"All right, Joy, I want you to promise me that you'll mind Miss Shirley while you're with her, and do the same with Grandmother. Don't get into _too_ much mischief, and -" the rest of Gilbert's last-minute, slightly panicked instructions were cut short by the last-chance-whistle, and the conductor's "All aboard!"

Gilbert crouched down. "And remember that I love you, sweetheart - even if I'm not there to tell you."

Joy flung her little arms around his neck. "I love you too, Papa."

Anne watched them, feeling a little pang of hollowness in her heart. All this might have been hers...and then Gilbert straightened up, dislodging Joy and handing her up into the railway carriage before embracing Anne and stepping back hastily. Anne was left to hitch up the skirt of her blue traveling suit and follow Joy into the car, sitting down on a bench and rolling down the window so that they could both poke their heads out.

"Gil!" Anne waved her arm. "Here we are!"

He came to walk beside the car as it slowly chugged along the platform, gathering speed as it neared the end of the station. Finally, when it was going too fast for him to keep up, he fell back, waving after it as it sped towards the horizon, growing smaller with each passing moment.

A man he didn't know came to stand beside him. "Your wife?" he asked, nodding towards the train.

Gilbert shook his head. "No...my daughter. And a friend," he added, knowing to whom the man had been referring.

The man nodded sagely, his blue eyes seeming to see through Gilbert and into his soul. "Well, don't let her go, lad," he shook his head slowly, impressing his point further, "Don't let her go."

* * *

On the train, Anne sat on her bench, Joy cuddled up her side. Soon, a tell-tale sniffle came from the six-year-old's direction. Anne looked down to see two fat tears roll down her pale cheeks.

"Oh, darling," she said quietly, "is everything all right?" Anne, with many years of teaching and their corresponding wisdom behind her, knew exactly what was wrong. She had seen this look before, on children who were on their first day of school. It was a lost look, one that always broke her orphan's heart.

Joy's lower lip trembled. "I...I miss Papa."

"He misses you too, you know," she stroked the black curls gently. "Didn't you see his face at the station?"

Joy nodded. "A little. I was trying not to think about how much I missed him then, either." A moment's pause, and then- "Miss Shirley, do _you_ miss Papa?"

An auburn brow rose at that. "Yes, I suppose...I do." She thought of Gilbert, standing at the end of the platform, waving at the train as long as she could see him. "But when I find I'm missing something or someone that I've left behind, I try to find something to look forward to about the place I'm traveling to. For instance, do you know that I was terribly homesick the first time I left home to go to university?" Joy shook her head, tears already forgotten at the idea of a story. "Well, I tried to look forward to my classes, and to all the new people I'd make, the new haunts I'd discover…" She continued to stroke the black curls on Joy's head, remembering her first days at Redmond. She'd felt as _insignificant as the teeniest drop in a most enormous bucket.*_ And then, with the discovery of friends, some old, some new, and the old St. John's graveyard, things began to improve steadily.

"Now, we are on a train bound for Bright River, PEI. Isn't that an exciting thought, darling? In just a few hours we'll be at the station, where your grandmother will be waiting for us with the buggy. And you'll have two weeks with her - in Avonlea - in the summer! It's beautiful there this time of year," she said, remembering the many summers of her past, spent in the Dryad's Bubble, the Lake of Shining Waters, or wandering through the no-longer-quite-so-haunted-wood.

"You'll come visit me while I'm with Grandmother, won't you, Miss Shirley?" Joy's eyes pleaded softly.

"Of course," Anne smiled, "and we'll have so many wonderful things to do, too! We'll _run free in a green world of summer loveliness._ We'll _dream by the Dryad's Bubble in the twilight._ We'll _drift on the Lake of Shining Waters in a shallop shaped from a moonbeam . . . or in Mr. Barry's flat, if moonbeam shallops are not in season._ We'll _gather starflowers and June bells in the Haunted Wood._ We'll _find plots of wild strawberries in Mr. Harrison's hill pasture._ We'll _join the dance of fireflies in Lover's Lane and visit Hester Gray's old, forgotten garden . . . and sit out on the back door-step under the stars and listen to the sea calling in its sleep.**_ And perhaps . . . if I can convince both Marilla _and_ your grandmother, you could come spend the night up at Green Gables with me once or twice. Would you like that?"

Joy's little face blossomed into an expression that could only be described as incandescent. "Oh, yes, Miss Shirley - very much."

"Good, then." She tucked the little girl more securely against her side and pointed out the window, at the countryside rolling past them. "Now, look at that house there - doesn't it just have so much _scope for imagination_?*** I wonder what kind of family lives there . . ."

* * *

"It looks so different!" Joy exclaimed as the buggy rolled over the red dirt roads of Avonlea. "It's as if the world's come alive!"

Over the top of her head, Anne and Mrs. Blythe shared a look. Oh, yes, they silently agreed, this child was of a variety that had been seen in Avonlea before - but only once.

"I'm glad you like it," Esther Blythe smiled. "It was your father's favorite time of year here, too. In the summers, he would go out into the fields with his father - and while he never wanted to be a farmer, he enjoyed being outdoors, looking at everything. I think that if he could have, he would have snuck one of those microscopes home from Queens, and examined everything he considered interesting. As it was, he had to make do with a magnifying glass."

"Can I go into the fields with Grandfather?" asked Joy.

"Well, dear, you are going to be at home with me for a good deal of the time," offered Esther, weighing the pros and cons of sending an almost seven-year-old child out into the fields with John Blythe - who, while not an irresponsible man, did have slightly scatterbrained tendencies - and keeping her in the house all of the time, which was not necessarily any safer and would result in a miserable little girl.

The choice then, was a simple one. "Yes, you may - one morning or afternoon a week, if your grandfather agrees to it." The grandfather in question, she knew already, would be only too glad to take her with him, but a child was never too young to learn how to wait a little, in her opinion.

* * *

The Green Gables verandah was a cool and shady place to sit on sunny afternoon, and to have a good view of all that came up the road to the house. _Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously.***_ She was accompanied in her sitting by the other matriarch of Green Gables, Mrs. Rachel Lynde, who was as usual occupied with the makings of another 'cotton-warp' quilt. She had, since the fateful day she had first seen Matthew Cuthbert drive past her house to pick up a certain orphan, knitted a further ten quilts, bringing her total to a prolific twenty-six.

Mrs. Lynde was the kind of woman who kept one eye on her knitting and the other on what was happening around her, and as she had the sharper eyes, she generally reported the comings and goings of the road to a generally unappreciative Marilla, who considered this wholly unnecessary, and generally ignored her.

The sharp eyes of Mrs. Lynde caught a figure down at the end of the road, loaded with two bags and slowly making its way up to the house. "Marilla, I do believe another peddler's coming up to the house. That's the third in a week - and the third in a week you're going to buy something from, that's what."

Marilla snorted lightly. " _I wouldn't fret if I were you, Rachel. Goodness knows, the world is full of beggars, and it's a pretty pass if we can't help out a fellow being in need."****_

"You've gone soft, Marilla, that's what."

But sharp eyes are no match for a knowing heart. Marilla knew full well _who_ was coming up the road to Green Gables, and she was already halfway down the stairs and going to greet the bag-laden figure Mrs. Lynde had so hastily labelled as a peddler.

Putting down her knitting, Mrs. Rachel fired her last admonishment at Marilla's parting back. " _Marilla Cuthbert! Don't you be buying any junk from those peddlers just to satisfy your conscience. You'll kill yourself running!"*****_

But Marilla did run, and it was indeed her Anne who had come up the road with the bags and a bouquet of early wildflowers picked from the side of the road. The bags were dropped and the bouquet slightly squashed in the ensuing embrace, and though Marilla would have sternly denied it later, it is entirely possible that she wiped away a small tear of joy at seeing her Anne of Green Gables come home.

* * *

It was hot inside the newly enlarged Patterson Street manse, although every available window had been flung wide and and all the doors connecting rooms had been propped open to allow air to flow through. In the front room, with her feet - which she had not seen in about three months - propped up on a footstool and a wet rag on her neck, sat Phillipa Blake, née Gordon, feeling for all the world like a beached whale.

The night before she had, in a rare moment of decisiveness, informed her husband that if she was having twins, they were to be named Alec and Alonzo - even if they were girls. The sainted man - for she had a feeling that only a saint could put up with her at this point - had laughed, kissed her, and informed her that if those were to be the names, he would look forward to being the only father in Canada who had girls named Alec and Alonzo.

That same sainted man had just come in with the daily stack of mail, sifting through it before handing her the envelopes with her name on them.

A quick perusal resulted in a letter postmarked Avonlea, Prince Edward Island. Phil tore into the envelope with unusual gusto, causing the sainted Rev. Jo to look up with an expression of interest. Aware that he was paying attention, Phil gave the piece of paper a flourish and began to read the letter aloud, knowing that while the letters were often addressed only to her, Anne usually meant it for the both of them.

 _Dear Phil -_

 _Another year of school has been taught - my first as a principal, and it really wasn't all that different from a year as a "straight" teacher. I had the joy of dealing with the aftermath of two lost teachers - but the results were quite happy, for had they not left, I would not have had the opportunity to teach Joy Blythe, and Leslie Moore would not be getting married at the end of July._

 _Yes, my dear Mrs. Blake (and Rev. Jo, if he's listening in) Leslie is to be married! Owen finally asked her, the night of the shore dance. He is now living in my cottage while I'm here at Green Gables (so that you know where to send your letters to for the next three months) to uphold some semblance of propriety._

 _[...] and I am now in Avonlea, quite happily ensconced in my East gable again, with the windows flung open to let in the last of the twilight breeze before dusk comes, and Mrs. Lynde raps on the door, reminding me to close my window so that I don't catch a chill._

 _I was, by the way, not alone on my journey back to Avonlea. I accompanied Joy - or_ she _accompanied_ me _\- I'm still not entirely certain which. And in those few short hours on the train, dear Phillipa, I believe I had a glimpse of the motherhood which eluded me._

Here, Phil trailed off, quickly skimming the next paragraph before turning to her husband. "You may go back to your sermon, Reverend," she informed him grandly, "this next bit is for my eyes only."

The Reverend, used to these sorts of commandments from his wife of five years, gave a good-humored smile and withdrew to his study where, it was true, there was a sermon in desperate need of his attention.

Once she had ascertained that the room was indeed clear of any individual with whom this letter was not concerned, Phil resumed her reading, her eyes quickly traveling down the page to find the spot she had left off.

 _. . . It was while Joy was outside, getting a drink from the water fountain at the end of the car. The man who had been sitting across from us looked up from his large American newspaper which he had been buried behind for most of the journey._

" _Cute kid."_

 _Even without the vocabulary and newspaper, his accent alone would have placed him as "Yankee", as Mrs. Lynde still insists on calling them. I simply smiled, and nodded in agreement._

" _She yours?"_

 _I shook my head. "No," I said, "I am her teacher."_

 _But for a moment there, the briefest of moments, dear Phil, I wanted to say "Yes," so badly . . . because she_ could _have been mine. If I had given a different answer in the orchard at Patty's Place when I was nineteen . . . who knows what might have happened._

* * *

 _*Anne of the Island_

 _**Anne of Windy Poplars_

 _***Anne of Green Gables_

 _****Anne's House of Dreams_

 _*****Anne of Green Gables: The Sequel_

 _I've always imagined Phil Gordon - begging your pardon: Phil Blake - to look like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady. Am I the only one? Granted, I don't quite know how "beached whale" and "Audrey Hepburn" might fit into the same sentence - the imagination does rebel a bit - but I'm sure it can somehow be done..._

 _Well, now...we're back in Avonlea. We've haven't quite come full circle yet, but we're getting close. For those of you who like teasers, I offer the following for your approval: "Try again." Oh, and we haven't seen the last of Phil..._

 _Caprubia: Mine too - someone needs to bring back dance cards._

 _AnneFans: I make no promises...but I have some ideas for a sequel..._

 _kslchen: Can I take a moment to say that you leave the best reviews? "A spinster hanging around in dark places with an unmarried man." If Mrs. Lynde knew, she'd either thank the Lord, or have an attack of the vapors. Romance in three...two...one..._

 _OriginalMcFishie: Well, I couldn't let everyone get engaged in the same chapter, could I now? (although I did consider it)_


	22. Of Babies, Gardens, and Letters

"Diana, he's gorgeous!" Anne exclaimed as she held the barely day-old Jack Wright in her arms. "He's the very picture of you!" Next to her, propped up in bed, sat the glowing third-time mother, her black hair loosely pulled back into a braid.

"It was rather quick this time around," Diana smiled, taking in her best friend and new son. "And the new doctor, the one who bought old Dr. Spencer's practice, was of the...rather modern...notion that the husband should be in attendance."

Anne's eyebrows flew up, and she must have jostled little Jack, for the young gentleman opened a dark eye and began to squall. "I'm sorry, little angel," Anne whispered, "your Aunt Anne is simply surprised at the modern ways of the world...and that little roly-poly Fred Wright was able to remain standing throughout the entire performance." She raised her head to look at Diana. "And how did the father take it?"

Diana gave a muffled snort of laughter. "Badly." At Anne's encouraging gesture, she continued, "I believe he may have fainted. I swear, the man's attended calvings, foalings, lambings…"ings" of all kinds, and I should think he'd be used to the sight of blood by now. But no: one look, and dear Fred went down like a felled tree. I think it's safe to assume that little Jack here," she nodded to the baby in Anne's arms, "will be our last."

"Well, three is a perfectly sensible number, I think," Anne rocked in her chair, gently lulling the baby to sleep before handing him off to his mother, who transferred him to the cradle beside the bed.

"After last night, I agree with you," Diana smiled wryly.

Anne stood, kissing Diana on the cheek. "I'll let you get some sleep. You look exhausted, dearest of Dianas."

"Not in the…." this was interrupted by a long, drawn-out yawn. "Oh, very well, I am." Diana curled up, and before Anne was halfway down the stairs, was fast asleep.

* * *

After bidding Mrs. Barry farewell on the porch of Diana's house, Anne strolled past the fields that made up the Wright's farm on her way back to Green Gables. Seeing Fred, she waved, surprised when he stopped his work to come to the fence separating the road from the field.

"The proud father," she greeted him, noting the circles underneath his eyes, "I hear you had an...eye-opening...experience last night."

"It was Hell, Anne," he said softly, resting his forehead on the wooden fence. "I don't think I've ever seen something quite as…"

She patted him on the back. "Not one of your calvings, then?"

He shuddered. "Never again."

"I think you may have just hit the reason for the new doctor's methods, Fred." Anne considered her time before Green Gables, all the large families with mostly absent fathers. If any of them had attended a birth...well, those families might have been a good deal smaller. If the fathers had cared enough.

"If it makes you feel any better, she's had worse," she informed Fred, whose head still rested on the fence.

The head in question slowly rose until a set of horrified blue eyes met hers. " _Worse?_ " he asked hoarsely.

"I've heard," she added hastily. "Mrs. Barry might have over…"

But Fred was shaking his head. "Anything worse than...than _that_...would be considered cruel and unusual."

"I refute your statement thusly: plenty of women have babies - therefore it is not unusual. As to whether it is cruel, well, I suggest you take that up with the Almighty."

"It isn't happening again," he insisted.

"You know, I think Diana agrees with you."

* * *

"Well, Diana is once again a happy mother made," Anne announced as she entered the Green Gables kitchen. "John Robert Wright, born at an unholy hour last night, is a beautiful little specimen of babyhood."

" _Every little baby is the sweetest and the best_ ,"* quoted Marilla, causing Mrs. Rachel to rear up as though stung by a bee.

"Marilla Cuthbert, I never thought I would ever live to hear those words escape your mouth. I was right - you _have_ gone soft, that's what."

Anne laughed and gave the old woman an affectionate squeeze. "And of course _you_ haven't, dear Mrs. Lynde." Then her eyes opened wide, and she struck her forehead with her palm. "Oh, great Jehoshaphat - I was supposed to go to Windy Orchard to take Joy for a ramble! I forgot in the excitement of Diana's baby - oh, I hope they can forgive me..."

And with that, she was out the door, heading towards Windy Orchard.

"Well, Rachel," said Marilla, watching Anne's red head disappear around the corner, "you may be comforted that _some_ things never change. I declare, that girl is as absent-minded as the day she came."

* * *

"Where are we going today, Miss Shirley?" Joy asked as the two made their way through the Haunted Wood. "Can we visit Mrs. Wright and her new baby?"

Anne smiled. "Maybe in a week or so. She's still quite tired - and little Jack should spend some time with his family before the rest of the world tumbles in to see him, don't you think?"

"But _you_ went to see him, Miss Shirley."

"Ah, but _I_ am his godmother," she replied with the same italics.

"Is that the same as a fairy godmother?" asked Joy, who was still enamored of the book of fairy tales she had received for Christmas.

Anne shook her head. "No...not quite," she tried to suppress a laugh, failing only a little. She led Joy off the main path and onto a smaller one, _narrow and winding,*_ barely visible in the ground, so untraveled had it been. Coming to a rusty gate, she stopped for a moment, surveying the landscape surrounding them. "Ah...here we are…" she pushed open the gate.

 _Just before them, hemmed in by beeches and firs but open to the south, was a little corner and in it a garden . . .or what had once been a garden. A tumbledown stone dyke, overgrown with mosses and grass, surrounded it. Along the eastern side ran a row of garden cherry trees, white as a snowdrift. There were traces of old paths still and a double line of rosebushes through the middle; but all the rest of the space was a sheet of yellow and white narcissi, in their airiest, most lavish, wind-swayed bloom above the lush green grasses.**_

"Where are we, Miss Shirley?" Joy gazed about in wonder. It seemed to her that they had somehow stepped out of Avonlea, and into a magical world of beauty, where time stood still and dreams came true.

Anne led her deeper into this seemingly mystical world. "We have found Hester Gray's garden, Joy. It has long been a favorite spot of mine."

"Doesn't Miss Gray take care of her garden?" asked Joy, in all of her curiosity and innocence.

"Hester Gray died almost fifty years ago, darling," Anne said gently.

Joy, sensing that there was a story buried somewhere under this, settled down next to her teacher, resting her chin on her knees.

 _"Long ago," began_ Anne, _"this farm belonged to old Mr. David Gray. He didn't live on it. . .he lived where Silas Sloane lives now. He had one son, Jordan, and he went up to Boston one winter to work and while he was there he fell in love with a girl named Hester Murray. She was working in a store and she hated it. She'd been brought up in the country and she always wanted to get back. When Jordan asked her to marry him she said she would if he'd take her away to some quiet spot where she'd see nothing but fields and trees. So he brought her to Avonlea. Mrs. Lynde said he was taking a fearful risk in marrying a Yankee, and it's certain that Hester was very delicate and a very poor housekeeper; but it is said she was very pretty and sweet and Jordan just worshipped the ground she walked on. Well, Mr. Gray gave Jordan this farm and he built a little house back here and Jordan and Hester lived in it for four years. She never went out much and hardly anybody went to see her except Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Lynde. Jordan made her this garden and she was crazy about it and spent most of her time in it. She wasn't much of a housekeeper but she had a knack with flowers. And then she got sick. Mrs. Barry says she thinks she was in consumption before she ever came here. She never really laid up but just grew weaker and weaker all the time. Jordan wouldn't have anybody to wait on her. He did it all himself and they say he was as tender and gentle as a woman. Every day he'd wrap her in a shawl and carry her out to the garden and she'd lie there on a bench quite happy. They say she used to make Jordan kneel down by her every night and morning and pray with her that she might die out in the garden when the time came. And her prayer was answered. One day Jordan carried her out to the bench and then he picked all the roses that were out and heaped them over her; and she just smiled up at him. . .and closed her eyes. . .and that," concluded_ Anne _softly, "was the end."**_

Joy was young, but even an almost-seven-year-old can sense the romance and tragedy that weave through a story such as this one. Anne reached forward and gently wiped a tear from Joy's cheek with her thumb.

"What happened to Jordan?" sniffed Joy. "Did he die of a broken heart?"

 _"He sold the farm after Hester died and went back to Boston. Mr. Jabez Sloane bought the farm and hauled the little house out to the road. Jordan died about ten years after and he was brought home and buried beside Hester.**_ So yes, dear, I think you _could_ say that he died of a broken heart."

"Have _you_ ever died of a broken heart, Miss Shirley?"

It seemed to Anne that Joy was not quite clear on the meaning of "dying of a broken heart." But she would reflect on that later, when they were long out of Hester Gray's garden and down the road to Windy Orchard.

Here, in the little garden built with love for Hester Gray, she remembered a day in an orchard, many years ago, and sighed softly. "I have, dear….I just didn't know it at the time."

* * *

The heat wave in Kingsport still had not passed in a week, and Phillipa Blake was, quite frankly, done with it. If she weren't in her delicate condition - and why did they call it 'delicate,' anyways? There was nothing 'delicate' about having one's ankles inflate to the size of melons, and one's abdomen to the size of….was there anything to compare the size of her stomach to? Well, the point remained that if she weren't in her delicate condition, she would probably have walked down Patterson street and straight into the bay, minister's wife or not.

It did not help that she was once again on the horns of a dilemma. The letters from Anne and Gilbert burnt twin holes in her pockets, and she _knew_ that if she did not do something, they might still be in the same place in ten years, each unwilling to speak to the other.

Why, she wondered, why, why, _why_ had Anne Shirley turned Gilbert Blythe down, all those years ago, that dratted day in the apple orchard at Patty's Place? Anyone with eyes in their head - save Anne - could see that they were perfect for each other.

And then Gilbert, heartbroken, had gone off and married Christine Stuart. Phil had actually cried when she received the wedding invitation, and had only barely avoided speaking during the wedding, when the minister had intoned, "Speak now, or forever hold your peace."

She hadn't spoken then, and she hadn't spoken since. But...did it still count when the bride was dead? Surely it didn't. Phil did not, it should be added, consider herself a meddlesome woman - but she was not above pulling a few strings to ensure that the world ran as it should.

If Jonas knew…

Oh, whom was she fooling? He probably did.

So she pulled a piece of cream-colored stationery out of her stack, and dipped her pen in the inkwell before starting a letter that she would later wonder whether or not to send.

 _Dear Gilbert-_

 _In answer to your medical questions, I am...fairly well, unless you count "dying of heat"...but all other things aside, I am a beached whale, and eagerly anticipating the day when I can hold my babies._

 _However, the point of this letter is not to answer all your questions about my pregnancy. I can write you a long, detailed one, with all my in-depth descriptions, later. I am writing to you now, because I have here, in my possession, a_ very _interesting letter from a certain schoolteacher we both know and love._

 _Yes, Gilbert: love._

 _Do you remember what I told you, that day after you proposed to Anne? I could be wrong, but I believe it was something along the lines of, "She loves you - she's just afraid to admit it." And then Royal Gardner came along, and you married Christine - and Gilbert, do you know how hard I bit my tongue during your wedding? Never have I wanted to say something so badly...but I didn't. Jonas would be proud._

 _That aside, I'll come to the point of my letter, Gilbert: try again. It's obvious you love her, and without spelling things out for you, I can almost guarantee that you will get a different answer this time..._

 _So try again, Gilbert. And if everything goes pear-shaped, you can always blame me._

 _Yours,_

 _Phil Blake_

 _P.S. Am I supposed to be the size of a house? Because I've never seen anyone quite as large as myself before._

The letter, as it would turn out, was sent...after being jabbed with a hatpin. And it arrived in Glen St. Mary a mere four days later, where it was read by a certain doctor, who had to sit down when he was through. He hastily scribbled a note to his mother, informing her that he would be arriving later that week to visit her, and to take in some of the Avonlea summer. He did not inform her of his other reasons for visiting…

But he finally had _the courage to try again.*_

* * *

When Gilbert stepped off the train at Bright River, he was surprised to see his father sitting in the buggy, waiting for him.

"Dad!" he called, waving.

John Blythe took the pipe out of his mouth and smiled. His son looked so much younger than he had in years...no, it wasn't that he looked _younger -_ he looked _happier_. And if Joy's constant stream of chatter every day in the fields could be condensed and believed, it was all because of a certain…

Gilbert swung his suitcase into the backseat and climbed in beside his father. "You didn't have to do this, Dad," he said, realizing that his father was giving up a morning of work to come pick him up, "I _am_ still fully capable of walking places on my own."

"Well, then I'll just set you down by the side of the road, then, shall I?" suggested his father, pulling the horse over.

"Oh, no - I'll take what I can," Gilbert grinned, recognizing his father's old joke.

The two continued in silence down the road, the only sounds made by the horse's hooves striking the road and the wind in the branches above them. The silence between them stretched out, and Gilbert realized that this was the first time in years that he was alone with his father. Even when he had come at Christmas, there had always been Joy, his mother, or sometimes both with them.

The father in question cleared his throat. "What brings you home again so soon, son?"

Gilbert smiled. Two visits in less than six months was indeed a rare event for him. "Ma's letter originally commanded me to come visit with Joy. I needed a bit more time - not to mention had to convince Uncle Dave to take over the practice again for a couple of weeks - but I wanted to come in time for Joy's birthday."

"That's right," Mr. Blythe said, as though to himself, "Joy's birthday is next week. I suppose Anne had nothing to do with your sudden decision to come home, either?"

Only his reflexes kept Gilbert from falling out of the buggy and into the road. His father sat on the bench next to him, chuckling as his almost thirty-year-old son became a sixteen-year-old again.

Struggling to recover in a remotely graceful way, Gilbert looked straight ahead. "Anne's being here is purely coincidental, I assure you," he said with as much doctor's dignity as he could.

John Blythe gave a chuckled, then reached up to tug his son's ear. "Always were a bad liar, son."

* * *

Anne and Joy sat on the Green Gables porch steps, a large bowl of peas between them. Their laps were piled high with yet-to-be shelled pods, and at their feet was a growing pile of empty hulls. Marilla had sent them onto the porch when she had deemed they were getting to boisterous for the kitchen, deciding that a half-hour shelling peas would do everyone a world of good.

For kindred spirits, however, even a mundane task such as shelling peas can be interesting. They talked, laughed, pointed out strange shapes in the clouds above them, and once in a while, a pea did make it into the bowl.

A cloud shaped rather like a flat slowly floated past in the sky overhead. Anne gave a small chuckle before turning to Joy. "Have I ever told you about the time I nearly drowned in the Lake of Shining Waters?"

Joy, who was familiar with the body of water in question, but not the story accompanying it, shook her head.

"Well, when I was thirteen or so, Jane Andrews, Ruby Gillis, Mrs. Wright, and I decided to dramatize the poem _Elaine_ , by Tennyson." At Joy's questioning look, she quoted the opening:

" _Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,_

 _Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,_

 _High in her chamber up a tower to the east_

 _Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;_

 _Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray_

 _Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam"***_

"Don't worry," she added cheerfully, "you'll be memorizing it yourself in a few years. I make all my students recite at least the first stanza." She explained the basic story of the poem before continuing with her own. "Well, it had been determined that I should play Elaine as she floated down in her funeral barge. I was rather against this, as Elaine had " _all her bright hair streaming down_ ,"*** but Ruby Gillis, the only blonde among us, was terrified of floating down in Mr. Barry's flat with her eyes closed, so I was chosen as the next best thing. And so, once I had been properly draped in Mrs. Barry's black shawl and yellow piano scarf, a blue iris stuck between my hands in place of the lily - lilies not having been in season at the time - I was pushed off by King Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot, played by Ruby, Jane and Diana, respectively, and gently floated out into the Lake of Shining Waters, towards the bridge.

"And then then flat sprang a leak."

Joy gasped.

" _Well, I was horribly frightened," she told_ Joy, _"and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water rising in it every moment. I prayed most earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said, `Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,' over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land."****_

Joy's eyes were the size of saucers. It felt as though she were right there next to Anne, clinging to that slippery bridge pile, praying for salvation in any form. "How were you saved, Miss Shirley?"

Anne threw back her head and laughed. "Your father, actually. I don't know what he was doing, rowing around on the lake that day, but he came floating by, just as I thought I was going to slip off the pile. Now, he was rather surprised to see me looking down at him from the bridge pile, but he helped me into the boat, and rowed me to dry land." Anne left out that she had subsequently treated him abominably - there was no need to ruin a perfectly good afternoon with bad memories.

"Miss Shirley, what was my Papa like then?" Joy asked, throwing a handful of shelled peas into the bowl between them.

"Well, let's see…" Anne bit her lip in concentration, thinking back on old times. "He was always very bright - we were always tying for first place in class. And he was very ambitious. Did you know he decided to be a doctor when he was sixteen? Or rather, that's when he told me; I have a feeling he knew long before that.

"He was also quite popular with the girls, you know. He was very handsome...and he knew it!"

"Did you like him then, Miss Shirley?" Joy asked.

Once again, Anne threw back her head and laughed before replying. "Goodness, no! I hated him. But I grew to like him...with time."

* * *

Gilbert approached Green Gables, unseen by the two sitting on the porch steps. His mother had told him, upon his arrival at Windy Orchard, that Joy had spent the night at Green Gables and could still be found there, if he wanted to see her. So he had set of off on foot, taking the fields as a shortcut. And now he came up the lane, seeing his daughter and Anne before they could see him. Stopping for a moment, he watched the pair from a distance, seeing the natural love and affection between them.

He saw Anne throw back her head in laughter before replying to Joy, who watched her with wide eyes. Then she grew still, her chin propped in her hand, the mountain of peas in her lap forgotten as she stared of into the distance.

Gilbert pushed away from the tree he had been leaning against, and made his way closer to them, pushing open the gate that led into the yard. He could hear her voice now, laughing as she told Joy some kind of story.

"...very ambitious. Did you know he decided to be a doctor when he was sixteen? Or rather, that's when he told me; I have a feeling he knew long before that."

It was then that Gilbert realized that he was the subject of their conversation.

"He was also quite popular with the girls, you know. He was very handsome...and he knew it!"

Well, that was true, if he did say so himself.

"Did you like him then, Miss Shirley?" Joy asked.

Gilbert had to fight back a laugh. He already knew the answer to _that_ question.

Once again, Anne threw back her head and laughed, her hair catching every coppery sunbeam and reflecting it tenfold. "Goodness, no! I hated him. But I grew to like him...with time."

She looked up, presumably searching for more fodder to with which to regale his daughter, when her eyes found him.

The grey-green orbs grew wide, a rosy flush spread across her cheeks - already a bit more freckled after a few weeks of Avonlea sun - and after a moment of surprise, her mouth tilted into a smile.

"Hello, Gilbert."

* * *

*Anne of the Island

**Anne of Avonlea

***Lancelot and Elaine - Alfred, Lord Tennyson

****Anne of Green Gables

 _We are getting there, people! The crucial letter has been sent, people have come to their senses, and a certain pearl ring will soon be making an appearance..._

 _Original McFishie: Wait and see, wait and see...it won't involve Leslie and Owen's wedding, though (but why didn't I think of that?!)_

 _caprubia: Well, Anne and Gil are now in the same town, which is an improvement :) There will be more..._

 _kslchen: There are some things I will not divulge in the Author's Notes. But let's just say that there is a chance of Owen moving up in the ranks..._

 _You have no idea how much I was laughing to myself as I wrote that three-year-engagement part. No, I'm not that cruel! We need to get this story to its happily ever after so that I can move on to the next generation ;)_

 _NovemberRainbow: Welcome! There are fics I've avoided because I thought they sounded strange, and lo and behold, I ended up liking them. Seems you've found one :) Glad you like Joy...and yes, there are rambles ahead. Spades of rambles, depending on how far into the story you've gotten. I think that at this point, we've got one major one left._

 _elizasky: Seven reviews?! Holy crow...well, expect a more detailed reply from me soon-ish. Suffice it to say that I'm glad you're still here, and that I can assure you that things will wrap up before anyone has to go home to Ingleside..._

 _Love,_

 _Anne_


	23. Love Takes Up the Glass of Time

_Right...this is the chapter everyone's been waiting for since the words, "It was a beautiful pearly morning..." i can only hope I've done it justice._

* * *

There was a small party congregated on the Bythes' porch at Windy Orchard on a beautiful June day. It seemed as though the gods had conspired to make Joy's seventh birthday, her first in Avonlea, as wonderful as possible. Anne, Marilla, Mrs. Lynde, Dora and Davy - everyone at Green Gables who had come to know and love the little girl in the time she had spent with them - had been invited, and the invitation had eagerly been accepted by all.

Mrs. Blythe came through the kitchen door, bearing a cake with seven candles poked into the buttercream that covered it. "Now, make a wish, darling," she instructed Joy, setting the cake before her.

No one would ever know what Joy wished for on her seventh birthday, but you and I, reader. As she took a mighty breath to blow out her candles, Joy Blythe wished that her Papa might marry Miss Shirley, and that Miss Shirley might be her Mama. It was a child's wish, born of love and hope, and it is those wishes that the Fates have a tendency to smile upon.

After the cake, a sponge so light and airy that Marilla privately wondered how many eggs had been sacrificed in its making, had been consumed, Joy was given a present from each of her guests in turn. From Mrs. Lynde, there was a pair of knitting needles and a ball of fine yarn, along with the proclamation that "a girl was never too young to start a cotton-warp quilt, that's what." From Marilla, a set of biscuit cutters and her own prized recipe for them - only ever given to people Marilla thought _very_ highly of. From Dora, there was a pair of calico mice stuffed with sweetgrass, and from Davy, a bow and a half-dozen arrows. "That way, you'll have a bully - "

Here, Anne levelled a glare at the young man, who still hadn't managed to completely purge his vocabulary of less desirable words.

"I mean, a _great_ game to play when you get home," he quickly amended.

From Anne, there was a copy of _Heidi_. She had thought long and hard about what to get Joy, and finally, it had hit her: Joy, with her black curls and big heart, would surely find a kindred spirit in Heidi. Not to mention that the world of the Swiss Alps would offer an entirely new scope for the imagination.

The inside cover was inscribed with the following:

 _To Joyce Blythe, on her 7th birthday._

 _With much love from_

 _~Miss A. Shirley_

"Oh, thank you, Miss Shirley!" Joy flung her arms around Anne's waist.

Anne smiled, delighted that her gift had been so well-received. "We can start reading it together tomorrow, if you'd like."

Joy nodded eagerly. "I'm going to save it until we can read it together."

"Oh, good heavens, no!" Anne exclaimed. "Don't deny yourself that, darling. You can read as much as you'd like, and we'll pick up where you leave off."

Joy smiled again, hugging the book to her chest before carefully placing it on the table and turning to Gilbert's gift.

It was also a book - but a book of a different sort than Anne had given her. This one was carefully filled with notes, drawings, a few photographs, and pressed flowers had been pasted in here and there.

Joy carefully turned to the first page, which held a note in her Gilbert's handwriting.

 _Dear Joy,_

 _On this day seven years ago, I held a newborn, squalling baby girl in my arms, and I had absolutely no idea what to do with her. I named her Joyce Charlotte, and soon afterwards, took her home to the Island, and the house you know as Ingleside. There, she continued to squall a bit, until she decided that she rather liked the place, compared to the sooty streets of Toronto, and made herself at home._

 _The years passed, and the squalling baby learned to crawl, then toddle around on her own two feet, and then suddenly she started running - skipped walking entirely, it would seem. I was left to chase you all over the house - and the garden, once you discovered it._

 _Even more years passed, and you started school, with the indomitable Miss Shirley as your teacher. I remember being absolutely terrified the day I left you at the schoolhouse for the first time: what if something went terribly wrong, and you never wanted to go to school again? I needn't have worried, of course: you and Anne are what she calls "kindred spirits" - you were bound to become fast friends._

 _And here you are, seven years old today. Words cannot describe how much I love you, sweetheart. But this book is certainly going to try._

 _I love you, my darling girl._

 _Papa_

Anne, who had been reading over Joy's shoulder, had to swallow hard to keep a sob from surfacing. This man loved his daughter more than anything else in the world. Anne watched as Joy flipped through the book, pausing momentarily to look at a photograph of her parents, stiff and formal on their wedding day. Both of them, Anne thought privately, looked rather uncomfortable. Then the pages fluttered some more, and Joy's fingers ran over a pressed pansy, then a drawing she had made when she was younger.

"Thank you, Papa," Joy climbed onto Gilbert's lap to give him a kiss, "I love you, too."

Anne saw Gilbert close his eyes, just after a tear hovered on his lashes. He kissed Joy's curls, smiling, before he looked up and his eyes met hers.

Anne smiled, then looked away, standing to help Mrs. Blythe clear the dishes.

A perfect day, indeed.

* * *

"Where are we going, Miss Shirley?" asked Joy as the pair slowly ambled down the lane from Windy Orchard. A small picnic basket dangled from Anne's arm, swinging gently as she walked.

"We are going to the Dryad's Bubble," she informed Joy, turning left at the fork in the road.

"What's the Dryad's Bubble?"

"The Dryad's Bubble, darling, is a little hollow surrounded by trees, not too far from the log bridge," Anne pushed aside an overgrown thicket - obviously, this path had been unfrequented in some time.

"Is that the bridge where -"

"Where your father rescued me from a near-certain death of drowning? It is, indeed. Ah - here we are!" exclaimed Anne. They had entered the little sun-dapple clearing with its spring in the middle. Wildflowers clustered in bunches wherever it seemed they had felt like putting down roots, and the mossy bases of the trunks - which had only grown mossier with time - made for a lovely, springy seat, if one was so inclined to sit down for a while and have a rest.

"I thought we might come here to do some reading," Anne sat at the mossy foot of a tree and accepted the book Joy handed her. "How far have you gotten with _Heidi_?"

Joy shook her head. "I didn't start it. I was saving it for you, Miss Shirley."

Anne felt her heart go quite soft at that. "Why, thank you , darling - we'll start at the beginning, then. What do you say we unpack this basket, pour ourselves some lemonade, and start reading?"

Joy must have agreed, for in very little time at all, Anne was leaning against the tree, Joy nestled under her arm, with a glass of lemonade next to her, and slowly, reverently opened the book, propping it against her knees.

"Smell that smell, Joy - it's a new book. I've always thought books had some of the nicest smells around. They can't compete with Marilla's plum puffs, of course, but that's to be expected. Now, let's see…" and here, her voice dropped into the special tone she only used to tell stories, a voice that wrapped the listener in a cocoon of words, spiriting them away, out of this mortal world and into a new one. " _The little old town of Mayenfeld is charmingly situated. From it a footpath leads through green, well-wooded stretches to the foot of the heights which look down imposingly upon the valley. Where the footpath begins to go steeply and abruptly up the Alps, the heath, with its short grass and pungent herbage, at once sends out its soft perfume to meet the wayfarer._

 _One bright sunny morning in June, a tall, vigorous maiden of the mountain region climbed up the narrow path, leading a little girl by the hand…_ "*

* * *

They stayed at the Dryad's Bubble until the sun deepened to golden and slanted through the trees. Then, they packed up their picnic, and set off the way they had come, quietly, without any chatter on the part of either. Each seemed to know that this special, golden part of the day was one best appreciated in silence. As they approached Windy Orchard, Anne detected a lone figure sitting on the porch, in the white rocking chair usually occupied by Gilbert's mother.

Except that this most certainly was _not_ Gilbert's mother. It was, unless she was quite mistaken, Gilbert himself, with a thick book balanced on his lap and a cup of tea in his hand, oblivious to the outside world. So he was entirely unaware of their presence until Anne bent over his shoulder and looked down at the book he was reading.

" _Cutter's Treatise on Anatomy, Physiology, & Hygiene_.** Oh goodness - and it even has engravings," she commented. "Doing a bit of light reading, are we, Dr. Blythe?"

He started, and then looked up, hazel eyes dancing. "I found this in my room - it was one of the first medical books I ever bought. It's over forty years old by now, but it still serves its purpose."

"Well, we've been doing some reading of our own, haven't we?" Anne looked to Joy for elaboration.

"We started _Heidi_ , Papa," Joy told him. "We read the first two chapters. I can't wait until we read the rest - we _will_ read some more, won't we, Miss Shirley?" Here, her eyes turned imploringly towards Anne's.

It was an unnecessary supplication, of course. Anne smiled down at the child she had grown so very fond of. "Of course we shall, darling - as soon as possible. But right now, I've got to get home to Green Gables. I promised Marilla I'd be home by dusk to make sure that all the chickens had got in - it's usually Dora's job, but she's spending the night at Minnie Mae's, so the task falls to me," she explained, stooping down to give Joy a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Good night, darling. Good evening, Gilbert," she added, meeting his eyes and giving him a quick smile before stepping off the porch and making her way down the lane. All the way there, she could have sworn she felt Gilbert's eyes on her.

* * *

Gilbert looked at Anne's retreating form until she disappeared around the bend, and then turned towards his daughter. "Did you have a nice time, then?" he asked. He was feeling a little nervous - his long fingers tapping his leg over and over again. He sat down on the porch step, the late afternoon sun warming the planks.

"We had a lovely time, Papa," she sat down next to him, her small feet drawing shapes in the dirt in front of them. "We went to the Dryad's Bubble - what is a dryad, Papa? Miss Shirley says it's _a sort of grown-up fairy***_ , but I'm not sure fairies ever grow up - and Miss Shirley read _Heidi_ , and Miss Cuthbert sent along lemonade and plum puffs...oh, it was exactly the way I've always imagined Heaven to be!" she announced rapturously.

Gilbert only heard about one word in three of this speech, so wrapped up was he in his thoughts. Here, he interrupted her, looking at her seriously. "Joy, you like Miss Shirley a lot, don't you?"

She nodded eagerly. "I _love_ Miss Shirley, Papa."

The good Dr. Blythe remained distracted by the speech that was slowly taking form in his mind. "I lo- like Miss Shirley a lot, as well."

"Of course you do, Papa," Joy said this matter-of-factly. After all, didn't everyone love Miss Shirley?

Gilbert's carefully crafted speech vanished, to be replaced with what could only be described as laborious rumination. "I'm glad that you like Miss Shirley, Joy, because I've been wanting to talk to you... what I mean is, I want to include you in... of course I love you more than anyone... you _do_ know I love you more than anyone else, don't you? I will never love anyone better than you, my little girl... but I like other people a lot as well and I've been wondering... I wouldn't do anything without you agreeing to this... I mean, I hope you _will_ agree to this, but if you don't..."

Confusion clouded Joy's violet eyes for a moment, eyes that no longer reminded him of Christine every time he saw them - now they only reminded him of his beautiful daughter and how proud he was of her. And suddenly, the confusion lifted in a blinding flash of clarity.

"Papa," she asked slowly, "are we going to marry Miss Shirley?"

Gilbert just stared at her, absolutely dumbfounded. How was it that one so young could be so perceptive? "Ah, yes...that was rather what I was going to - "

He was cut of by a pair of short arms being flung about his neck, and a wild yell of jubilation in his ear. "We're going to marry Miss Shirley!" She jumped up, nearly ripping the screen door off its hinges in her haste to get inside. "Grandmother! Grandmother Esther! We're going to marry Miss Shirley! We're going to marry…"

"Joy," Gilbert called after her weakly, drained from the ordeal of asking his daughter for her blessing to marry, "she has to say yes first…"

* * *

Later that evening, once the moon hung in the sky, bathing the world in all of its milky whiteness, John Blythe stepped out onto the porch. Gilbert, who was once again sitting on the porch step, turned around at the tell-tale creak of boots on the planks.

"So," John let himself down slowly next to his son, pulling his pipe and tobacco pouch out of his pocket, "I hear you're going to marry Anne Shirley."

Gilbert chuckled. "So I hear. She has to say yes first, as I tried to explain to Joy - to no avail, I might add."

His father lit a match, adding a momentary warm light to the evening before snuffing it beneath the heel of his boot. "And when are you going to ask her?" He took a long pull from his pipe, sending the fragrant smoke spiralling into the night sky.

"Tomorrow, perhaps," Gilbert said distractedly, "I can't wait too long, now that Joy knows. She's liable to burst next time she sees Anne."

"And have you got a ring?"

Gilbert's heart dropped into his toes. All along, he'd had a little nagging feeling that he'd been forgetting something - and that was it. "I'll run into town tomorrow, see if I can find anything," he said, while mentally berating himself for forgetting this rather important part of a proposal.

"No, no, no," his father shook his head, "the gossip will reach Anne before you will, if Josie Pye sees you. I've got a better idea," he rose to his feet, handing his pipe to Gilbert. "Hold this; your mother still doesn't like me smoking in the house," he said before he disappeared through the door. Gilbert heard his footsteps growing fainter until they disappeared. A few minutes later, he heard them again, coming closer, and his father soon sat down next to him, his hand gently cupped around something.

The old, work-worn hand unfolded to reveal a ring, glowing in the moonlight. A single pearl, suspended in four curved prongs that flared out to make four petals around it. It was such a simple design, yet exquisite in its simplicity. Gilbert immediately sensed that it was perfect.

"Many years ago," his father said quietly, "I asked a girl to marry me...and she said no. I put this ring away, and when the time came to ask your mother to marry me, I bought another one, because I didn't want to use this ring, which I felt had brought me such pain. I'd like you to have it now - and may you have better luck than I did, son."

"Thank you, Dad," Gilbert said simply, taking the ring and slipping it into his breast pocket. And truly, was there anything else to be said?

* * *

Anne was sitting on the porch at Green Gables, lost in thought as the filmy green dress in her lap - supposedly being mended - was neglected in favor of more enjoyable pursuits and daydreams.

 _"I've come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles through September woods and `over hills where spices grow,' this afternoon," said Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner. "Suppose we visit Hester Gray's garden."****_

Anne looked up distractedly, swiftly returning to reality. "I'd love to, Gilbert," she noticed that Joy was not with him that day. So this was to be a reminiscent sort of ramble, then - without the added buffer of the child between them. "Just let me put this away," she held up the still-unmended green dress and disappeared into the house, reappearing shortly without the dress and the apron she had also donned that afternoon. "To Hester Gray's we shall go."

 _The day was beautiful and the way was beautiful. Anne was almost sorry when they reached Hester Gray's garden, and sat down on the old bench. But it was beautiful there, too - as beautiful as it had been on the faraway day of the Golden Picnic, when Diana and Jane and Priscilla and she had found it. Then it had been lovely with narcissus and violets; now early golden rod had kindled its fairy torches in the corners and asters dotted it bluely. The call of the brook came up through the woods from the valley of birches with all its old allurement; the mellow air was full of the purr of the sea; beyond were fields rimmed by fences bleached silvery gray in the suns of many summers, and long hills scarfed with the shadows of summer clouds; with the blowing of the west wind old dreams returned._

 _"I think," said Anne softly, "that `the land where dreams come true' is in the blue haze yonder, over that little valley."  
"Have you any unfulfilled dreams, Anne?" asked Gilbert.  
Something in his tone - something she had not heard since that miserable evening in the orchard at Patty's Place, _and then that afternoon in January _\- made Anne's heart beat wildly. But she made answer lightly.  
"Of course. Everybody has. It wouldn't do for us to have all our dreams fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream about. What a delicious aroma that low-descending sun is extracting from the asters and ferns. I wish we could see perfumes as well as smell them. I'm sure they would be very beautiful."  
Gilbert was not to be thus sidetracked.  
"I have a dream," he said slowly. "I persist in dreaming it, although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of friends, Joy - and YOU!"  
Anne wanted to speak but she could find no words. Happiness was breaking over her like a wave. It almost frightened her._

 _"I asked you a question over_ eight _years ago, Anne. If I ask it again today will you give me a different answer?"_

 _Still Anne could not speak. But she lifted her eyes, shining with all the love-rapture of countless generations, and looked into his for a moment. He wanted no other answer.****_

Anne reached up to brush his cheek with her hand. "Yes - entirely and without reservation, I give you the answer I ought to have given then."

 _Gilbert drew her close to him and kissed her.****_ Anne laughed gaily, feeling as though a tremendous weight had left her forever, before wrapping her arms around him and returning the kiss, her fingers sliding up into his dark hair as though to anchor her.

Later - much later - the pair left Hester Gray's garden and set off towards Green Gables. At some point along the way, the old pearl ring made its way onto Anne's finger. But when, or how, or where, is known only to the two who were involved in its giving and receiving. They had yet to see the Green Gables folk, or the expression on Marilla's face when she saw the ring John Blythe had offered her all those years ago. For now, they were content to _walk home together in the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew.****_

* * *

* _Heidi_ \- Johanna Spiri

**Oh, yes, this book actually existed. Published in 1850, it contained 150 engravings...most of them not _too_ disgusting.

 _***Anne of Green Gables_

 _****Anne of the Island_

 _Would you believe me if I said I considered ending the story right there? But I still need to wrap up a few loose ends in this story, so we aren't quite done yet..._

 _Well...I'm having a bit of trouble believing that I just wrote this chapter. I've been writing snippets of it in my head since October, and then I scrapped most of those bits and used Montgomery's original. After all, why mess with perfection?_

 _I'm not going to reply to reviews in the Author's Notes this time (too many - I'd end up with the A/N longer than the chapter. But I can't thank you enough, those of you who left a review to let me know that my writing hasn't become late-night gibberish) but I do need to give a very big thank-you to kslchen, who rescued the entire scene where Gilbert asks for Joy's blessing. Humor...it works wonders (nearly all of that scene is hers, so direct your praise in her direction, please)._

 _Last little note: the ring is indeed based on a real one - mine, in fact. I couldn't make up a realistic-sounding description for a fictional one, so...well, they do say "write what you know." :)_

 _Love,  
Anne_


	24. The First Few Weeks

_And here we have the penultimate chapter. I haven't posted in a while - a magical combination of writer's block, piles of exams, and a show are mostly to blame. But without further ado, the latest chapter!_

* * *

Mrs. Diana Wright sat on her porch, mostly recovered from the ordeal of childbirth, snapping the ends off of beans. The youngest Wright lay fast asleep in a basket next to her, his little stomach full of warm milk from his last feeding. At the bottom of the porch steps, little Anne Cordelia played with a pile of smooth stones her father had brought up from the creek, babbling to herself under her breath.

Diana looked at the mound of untrimmed beans in her lap, wondering why on Earth there had to be so many, and looked up again to check on her daughter. Fred junior was in the fields with his father - which admittedly was not a completely comforting thought - but it did mean that she didn't have to keep an eye on him. As she was about to look back at her beans, she caught a flicker of white down the road. Further inspection proved it to be Anne's shirtwaist - with Anne in it. Diana waved, a bean still in her hand, and Anne waved back, hurrying up towards the house. Scooping up Anne Cordelia on her way up the steps, she settled herself into the large wicker chair across from Diana, wordlessly grabbing a handful of beans and going to work on them.

"How are things at Green Gables?" Diana asked, well-used to thee impromptu visits, and thinking nothing of them by now.

"Everyone's quite well." Meanwhile, Anne was wracking her brain to think of a way to bring up her news - her reason for visiting, as it were. She recounted a funny story of how Davy had herded the cows into the wrong pasture, causing them to join up with a neighbor's dairy herd, and bringing an entirely new meaning to the phrase, "'til the cows come home." Poor Davy had waited for the cows to come back, not knowing that the Harrison's cows had already been taken in to be milked - and Davy's cows had gone right along with them. Finally, a nearly apoplectic Davy had been forced to call on the neighboring farms to see if anyone had picked up an extra few head of cattle.

Diana had to laugh. "Green Gables had just never had much luck with cows, has it?" she chuckled. "Remember Mrs. Lynde's cow?"

Momentarily distracted, Anne groaned, flinging a bean at Diana's black hair. "She looked _exactly_ like Dolly! No wonder Mrs. Lynde kept thinking that my cow had gotten into her field."

"And then you sold her to Gilbert on the spot," Diana shook with laughter, imitating her, "'Well, you can take your darned cow, Gilbert Blythe, and welcome!' Speaking of which," her expression slowly went back to normal, "How is Gilbert? He's visiting his parents with Joy, but you haven't said a word about him. You didn't have a quarrel, did you?"

"Well…" Anne trailed off, not quite knowing where to begin, "we did, in a way -"

Diana harrumphed. "Well I for one am going to go over to Windy Orchard and give the good _Doctor_ Blythe a piece of my mind -"

"- But that's all over now, dearest of Dianas," Anne cut her off, shaking her head. "We mended our fences some time ago. And yesterday, he came to take me on a ramble to Hester Gray's garden, because we'd wanted to go there in December, but it had all been snowed in, and -"

"For goodness' sakes Anne, get to the point!" Diana had now abandoned her beans and was staring intently at her friend, trying to read her expression.

The friend in question gave her a pointed look. "We'd have already gotten to it if you hadn't interrupted me, dear." She took a deep breath, steeling herself for Diana's reaction. "Yesterday, Gilbert Blythe took me to Hester Gray's garden and asked me to marry him."

Diana clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling her squeal of delight. Springing off the wicker seat with remarkable agility, sending beans flying everywhere, she threw her arms around Anne, squeezing her own daughter in the process. "Oh, Anne - I knew it! Ever since Christmas, I've known there was something between the two of you - let me see that ring you've been hiding so coyly...oh, it's darling! How like Gilbert to choose something like this - flaunter of tradition that he is. When are you getting married - have you set a date?"

Laughing, Anne pulled Diana's arms from her neck, and sat down next to her on the wicker sofa. "Diana - dearest Diana - I have been engaged less than a day."

"And?"

"How can you expect me to have my wedding date planned already?"

"Fred and I -"

"You _knew_ you were going to marry Fred, though. I didn't expect Gilbert to -"

Diana sighed, flopping back against a cushion. "Well, can you give me the month, then? You can Gilbert aren't young, and he's already established, so there's no need for a long engagement - lucky you, by the way; anyone who ever tells me that a three-year engagement is a good idea will be ordered off the premises with the admonishment to get their head examined. So," turning back to Anne with bright eyes, "month?"

"Ah…." like a startled deer, Anne froze. "September?"

"September?" Diana flapped a hand, "I said 'not long', not 'barely two months'! You need enough time to plan, for heaven's sake! Although," her look turned pensive, "if you really have your heart set on it, we could manage - Reverend Allan would be happy to come out of retirement for you, I'm sure. And a reception at Green Gables -"

"Diana," Anne tried to bring her back to earth, "Don't you think this is a decision Gilbert should be even remotely involved with?"

"Oh, I know," Diana sighed with satisfaction, "but it's just so much fun - planning your wedding...to _Gilbert Blythe_!" Spying her husband coming up from the fields, she stood, waving wildly. "Fred! Fred! Anne and Gilbert Blythe are getting married!" And then, noticing the figure accompanying Fred, she sighed. "Drat. He's heard already. Hello, Gil - we're planning your wedding. How does September sound?"

* * *

On a clear afternoon in early July, not long after Anne and Gilbert had come to Green Gables bearing the announcement of their engagement, two grey-haired ladies sat on the Green Gables porch, much as they would any other day. Their topic of conversation, on the other hand, was one that had only been in existence for the past eight days.

"I told you it was bound to happen," Mrs. Lynde practically crowed, proud as the day her own Eliza had announced her engagement. "Took them some time, but in the end, Providence always wins out - and Providence matched those two up when they were children, that's what."

"Do you remember," she added, "how I said that girl would marry either a widower or a heathen? Well, I was right, wasn't I!"

Marilla, her mind in a different place entirely, nodded absently. "You were."

This statement sounded so very much like something Matthew might have said, that Mrs. Rachel turned sharply to scrutinize the other woman, in case she drop dead the way her brother had - without informing Mrs. Lynde of her intentions first.

Suitably reassured that Marilla would not be meeting her maker anytime soon, Mrs. Lynde continued her contented musings. "And that ring he gave her - it's real handsome, even though it's a pearl; everyone knows that pearls are for tears."

"Anne cries when she is happy," Marilla reminded her.

"Trust that girl to do everything backwards," Mrs. Lynde started another row on her quilt, "that ring might as well be a good omen for a happy marriage - if I believed in omens, that is." Omens, according to Mrs. Rachel Lynde, were for heathens. And if there was one thing Mrs, Rachel Lynde was _not_ , it was a heathen.

But Marilla had long stopped listening to her friend, her mind going back to that evening on the Green Gables porch, when she had caught her first glimpse of the creamy pearl on Anne's finger. The light had been dim, and with her eyesight the way it was, she had at first thought that her eyes might be deceiving her. But a second look had confirmed what she already knew - that was the ring John Blythe had proposed to her with, all those years ago.

She hadn't expected it to feel so _right_ for Anne to have that ring. It was as though the younger generation was putting the follies of their elders to rights, and the circle had finally been completed. God was in His heaven, all was right with the world.

* * *

 _Dear Miss Shirley,_

 _We have received your letter, stating that you wish to resign from your post due to your upcoming marriage. The school board wishes to congratulate you on your nuptials, and offers its thanks for a year of faithful service to the pupils of Glen St. Mary._

 _We have also taken your recommendation that we offer Mr. Owen Ford the position of principal. He has accepted, and will be taking over your post in the fall._

 _Once again, accept our most heartfelt congratulations on your marriage._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _M. Harris_

 _Director, Glen St. Mary School Board_

* * *

"Marilla," Anne asked the Sunday following her engagement, "would you mind if I sat with the Blythes today?"

Marilla nodded, knowing that sitting with the Blythes in church would be equivalent to announcing their engagement publicly; anyone who had not yet heard it from the gossiping lips of Rachel Lynde would certainly know now.

A short while later, on the church steps, Anne was boisterously greeted by Joy, who flung her arms around her waist.

"Good morning, Miss Shirley!"

Anne scooped her up, spinning her around. "Hello, darling - oh, excuse me, Josie," she narrowly avoided crashing into Josie Pye, who simply sniffed and hurried into the church. "Now," she said with mock severity, "what did we say about my name?"

Joy gave her and angelic smile. "Anne."

"Exactly. And you can't go calling me 'Miss Shirley' for the rest of my life, can you? Besides, come September, I won't even _be_ Miss Shirley anymore!"

"You'll be my Mama," Joy grinned and hopped down, keeping her hold on Anne's hand, oblivious to the hitch in Anne's breathing at that statement.

Anne turned to go into the church with Joy, and nearly walked directly into Gilbert, who had clearly heard Joy's last pronouncement. For a moment, she froze, wondering what thoughts must be going through his mind - would he think her to be stealing Joy's true mother away from her, to be pushing herself into Joy's life?

Then that boyish smile she knew and loved pushed up his cheeks, causing the lines to fan out around his eyes. "Shall we go in?" Offering her his arm, he added, under his breath so that only she could hear, " _Mama._ "

For the second time in her life, Anne didn't hear a word of the sermon. Settled in the Blythe pew, with Gilbert and Joy on either side, she found herself staring out the windows, propped open to let in the breeze, and listened to the birds outside, rather than the interim minister. It was such a beautiful day, in such a beautiful summer, that Anne felt that everything was quite nearly perfect - until she became aware of a queer little prickling in the back of her neck. Carefully turning her head to look behind her, her eyes caught on Josie Pye, across the aisle and two pews back. _Aha._ It seemed that Josie wasn't hearing a word of the sermon either, so preoccupied was she with staring daggers into the back of Anne's head. And not just any daggers: these seemed to be of the flaming, poisonous variety.

Noticing Anne's eyes on her, Josie molded her lips into a smile that was sweet as honey, and at the same time bore no resemblance to the real thing. Josie Pye had found her new victim.

Slightly unsettled, Anne turned back towards the front, and didn't make a move to look behind her for the rest of the service.

There was no need to, of course, because afterwards, while receiving various forms of congratulations from old school chums as well as Avonlea matriarchs who had known Gilbert from his diaper-days, Anne and Gilbert saw the large hat - with Josie under it - come rushing at them.

"Anne! _Gilbert!_ " The saccharine smile was still there, along with eyes that still glittered hatefully in Anne's direction. "Please allow me to congratulate you - I declare, I was so _surprised_ when I heard - I mean, imagine the the two of you getting married! I would have thought it impossible - after all, Anne, you _are_ getting on -"

"Not much more than you, Josie," Anne informed her cheerfully, feeling her brittle smile, which had hastily been plastered on upon Josie's arrival, slip further.

"-although that dress you're wearing does make you look so young...didn't you wear it to the Allans' picnic five years ago?"

"Actually, it is," she fibbed glibly. "I've been fortunate enough to retain a youthful figure, Josie - I haven't had to buy new clothes in years!"

"And Gilbert," Josie turned to her next victim, "I was _so_ sorry to hear about your wife - she died quite recently, didn't she?"

Gilbert pursed his lips before replying, "Well, if by 'recently' you mean 'less than a decade ago,' then yes, she did," adding, "So glad to hear you're happy for us Josie, we'll be sure to send you a wedding announcement when the day comes - ah, Mrs. Lynde! I was hoping I might speak to you - " this was spoken to the thin air beyond Josie's right shoulder, and by the time the villain of the hour had turned around, Gilbert had pulled Anne into the crowd of parishioners leaving the church.

"Really, Gil? _Mrs. Lynde?_ " Anne asked once they were safely out of the church and Josie's earshot, "Surely you could have…"

"It was the first thing that came to mind."

"For a moment there, I thought she was going to compare you to Mr. Rochester and ask whether you had another wife in the attic," Anne shuddered, slipping her arm around his waist. "You don't, do you?" she looked up at him, her humor coming back in the sunlight.

"Unless you count Susan, no one even goes up there," Gilbert joked before becoming serious, "No, Anne. The only wife I ever intend to have in my attic is _you_."

* * *

 _Dear Anne,_

 _I was delighted to hear of your engagement - although I had a feeling that when Gilbert left Glen St. Mary to visit Avonlea, you would be coming home as his fiancee. I'm very glad that the good Dr. Blythe finally found it in himself to stop waffling and ask you to marry him._

 _Speaking of marriages, you will be coming to the wedding week after next, won't you? Owen and I won't hear of your staying away. Besides, if you don't come, Miss Cornelia and Captain Jim will be the only guests, and we can't have that. Gilbert and Joy are welcome as well, by the way._

…

 _Owen's accepted the now vacant position for principal of the Glen St. Mary school - and while I can say with some authority that you will be sorely missed by your pupils, I can't help feeling so very glad that we're going to live in your little House of Dreams. Good-bye to the old grey house by the brook; it can lose as many shingles as it likes, now._

 _Much love,_

 _Leslie_

* * *

WAS DELIGHTED TO HEAR OF YOUR ENGAGEMENT STOP WILL BE HOME BY SEPTEMBER HOPEFULLY IN TIME FOR WEDDING STOP LETTER FOLLOWING STOP

KATHERINE

* * *

 _Anne, honey -_

 _You do realize that I take all credit for this, don't you? Jo did try to reprimand me for meddling, but I waved your letter under his nose, and he seems to have forgiven me...not that it was ever a concern, of course. He sends his congratulations, by the way, and I'll have him sign at the bottom._

 _I don't know Joy personally, but from your letter it seems to me like she will have an excellent Mama. You have nothing to worry about, dearie (actually, that's not true. Come tell dear ol' Phil all your worries about wedding nights, babies, and mothering - she can help!) But you've known her for almost a year, now, and I think - once again, without having met her - that you two are what you call "kindred spirits". And if she's a kindred spirit of yours, she's one of mine, as well - I can't wait to meet her!_

 _Can I just tell you how wonderful it is that you and Gilbert are_ _finally_ _getting married? I always knew you two were born for each other. I was at his wedding to Christine - and honey, I knew it was a mistake all along. The only thing that kept me from objecting when the minister made his rhetorical question was Jonas' foot firmly planted on mine - oh, yes: my dear husband knew I desperately wanted to object. But I held my peace, and now everything's as it should be. You can bet that I won't be objecting at_ _your_ _wedding, Queen Anne!_

 _By the by - because Jonas would never dare ask - would you perchance be needing a minister?_

 _Love,_

 _Phil_

 _(and Jo)_

* * *

The waves of the Atlantic rolled in and out, covering part of the beach before retreating into the sea, only to rush up seconds later. On a tartan picnic blanket, out of the waves' reach, sat Anne and Gilbert, with Joy between them.

The latter was fast asleep, sprawled across the two adults, claiming them as her own. She had run herself into exhaustion, chasing waves all morning, and now slept the dreamless slumber of the contentedly exhausted.

Anne looked down at her, and carefully pushed a black curl out of her face. "Little angel," she said softly, tracing the little girl's pink cheek.

"I thought about what you said," she looked across the sleeping child, at Gilbert, "about adopting her." She paused, looking out to the sea before turning back to look at the hazel eyes she loved so dearly. "And my answer is yes. I _would_ like to adopt Joy, if she has no objections to it. I've never been a mother before, and most women certainly don't start off married life with a seven-year-old, but we've always flaunted convention, haven't we?" She watched the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement, "And besides, I love her so much already - all this will do is make me her mother in the eyes of the law, as well."

Gilbert reached out and clasped Anne's hand, which wore the ring he had given her earlier that summer. "Have I mentioned," he raised the hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the creamy pearl, "how much I love you?"

"Only several times," Anne looked out to the sea, then back at him, her grey eyes misty. "Gil, how did it take us this long? If only I'd said yes to you at Redmond - we'd have had eight more years together -"

"And who can say what might have happened? Anne, I believe that everything happens for a reason - perhaps not always a good one, but a reason nonetheless. Those eight years...we will never know what might have happened, and to worry about the might have beens and should haves will only cause regret. Right now, the best thing we can do is make the most of our future - and I certainly intend to. Now, Miss Shirley," he asked, "the only question now is, will you join me?"

She squeezed his hand, which still held on to hers. "Yes, Gilbert. Now and forever."

* * *

 _Originally, I intended for this chapter to be entirely epistolary. I then realized that it was quite short, and fortified it with some actual scenes. So you might call this a chapter of vignettes, I suppose. Now that we've tied up most of our loose ends (PM or comment with any questions about loose threads, and I'll do my best to answer them) haste to the wedding!_

 _Which is, by the way, the name of a jig - not that you needed to know that (but I thought that I might share it with you anyways, being the nerdy musician that I am ;)_

 _Love and thanks to everyone who left comments during my short hiatus - trust me, I read and loved all of them!_

 _Anne_


	25. A New Beginning

The eve before his wedding, Gilbert Blythe stood on the back porch of his parents' house, looking out over the garden. This was a garden steeped in memories. Here was the place he had fallen out of a tree and broken his wrist when he was six, nursed a bruised head (but mostly ego) when he was thirteen, chopped a winter's worth of kindling out of frustration at fifteen, and studied Euclid with Anne when he was eighteen. Even here, Anne's presence could be felt.

A buggy rattled its way into the yard, and he saw Fred Wright climb out, illuminated by the almost-full moon in the sky. There would be a full moon tomorrow night, if he wasn't mistaken. Fred came up the steps, a satchel in one hand, and a grin on his face.

"Mr. Wright," Gilbert greeted him, "to what do I owe the pleasure? We weren't expecting you until tomorrow morning."

"Just dropped Diana off at Green Gables," Fred sat down in the rocker across from his, pulling a pipe and tobacco pouch out of his vest. "She and Anne's friend Phil are giving Anne a bit of a hen night," he chuckled, "and I know you said you didn't want a stag do, but I thought why give our wives - wife-to-be, in your case - all the fun?" With that, he pulled a bottle of amber liquid out of his bag, along with a couple of glasses.

Gilbert gave a low whistle. "I thought the Wrights weren't drinking folk, Fred."

Fred poured a generous two fingers into each tumbler. "Everything in moderation, my boy, everything in moderation." Handing him a glass, he raised his own in a toast. "Cheers, Gil. Good luck."

Gilbert took a sip, then leaned his head back and sighed. "Oh, that _is_ good. Far better than the stuff I give to patients."

"And have nip of yourself from time to time, I wager?"

"I have my own stash for _that,_ Mr. Wright. You don't expect me to douse wounds in Talisker, do you?"

There was silence then, only broken by the rustle of the trees, and the occasional hoot of an owl. Then Gilbert chuckled.

"Remember the first time we drank, Fred?"

Fred groaned. "Don't remind me."

"Do you even remember what it was we drank?"

"My memories of that day are understandably vague. I do remember that the world spun around terrifically, though."

"Two eleven-year-old boys stumbling into the house, roaring drunk - and right into the minister's visit," Gilbert grinned wickedly. "The minster departed soon after, I might add, having been thoroughly scandalized, and my mother gave both of us a good thrashing - one which I, however inebriated I might have been, remember to this day. How don't you remember any of this? You were definitely there - I heard your yells when she walloped you."

"I don't remember any of it - although I do remember waking up with the most colossal hangover the next day. I can tell you, however," Fred took a rueful sip of whisky, "that I haven't been drunk since."

Gilbert was suspiciously quiet.

"Once," he said quietly, after an interminable moment. "I've only been drunk one time since then."

Fred raised his eyebrows, prompting him to continue.

"It was the night after Joy was born and Christine…" he shook his head, letting the unspoken word hang in the air. "Her parents had taken Joy for the night, the coroner had already come around for Christine, and it was just me, all alone in that big house. Me, and a bottle of whisky.

"When you're a doctor," he changed the subject, "you see people die. It comes with the territory. And people blame you, thinking you could have saved them, thinking that if only you'd tried harder, their loved one would still be with them. It's part of grief, and I try to remember that every time I can't save someone. But that night was the first time I'd had those feelings...and there was no one to blame but myself. She'd gotten pregnant - my fault. She'd haemorrhaged - my fault. And she'd died - also my fault. I blamed myself for it all...and there were so many emotions - grief, anger, shock, and - though I'm still ashamed to admit it - a little relief. I just wanted it all to go away, and it seemed like an easy way out. I drank," he admitted, "with the intent to get drunk - and maybe never wake up."

Fred had by this point discarded his whisky, and simply listened, the weight of the story settling over them both.

"Thank God I didn't," Gilbert continued. "They found me the next morning, splayed out on the floor of my study. Shortly thereafter, I woke up in bed with a hangover like I'd never had before or since. Twenty-four hours later, I decided that Toronto wasn't for me or Joy, and wrote my Uncle Dave that I would take over his practice in Glen St. Mary just as soon as Joy was old enough to make the journey with me."

They sat in silence on the porch, as the moon rose from its place over the horizon further into the sky. The rockers squeaked, the grass rustled, and they sat, the evening enveloping them in its darkness.

"Are you worried, Gil?" Fred finally asked, "that it's going to happen again?"

"Terrified," Gilbert admitted. "Not so much that it could happen again, although if Anne ever bears children, I can assure you I'll be a complete wreck until everyone's safe. It's that feeling of powerlessness I'm afraid of, that feeling of seeing Anne or my child dying, and not being able to do anything about it."

"Wives and children," noted Fred, "they look to us as the heads of the family, never knowing they're our strength - and that if anything happened to them, we'd be as hopeless as the next man."

Gilbert looked at him strangely. It was rare that something quite so philosophical came from Fred. "You're not wrong, Mr. Wright," he admitted, a grin hiking up the corner of his mouth at the old joke between them. "You ought to have come to Redmond with us - you'd have made an excellent psychologist."

"And speaking of wives and children," Fred drained the last of his glass and stood, "I really ought to get going. Diana's mother is looking after the children tonight, and while little Jack was deemed old enough to spend a few hours without his mother, he's bound to be clamoring for supper by now." He collected the glasses and bottle, setting them aside before reaching into his bag one last time.

"Oh, and I was supposed to give you this," Fred pulled an envelope, his original reason for visiting, out of his satchel. "Anne says to read it tonight - and the postman doesn't work this late, so it was decided that I bring it over."

Gilbert reached for it, smelling the hint of lilies-of-the-valley coming through the envelope.

Fred gave him a knowing grin. "Anything you'd like me to ferry to Green Gables, while I'm going in that direction?"

"Well," Gilbert pulled an envelope out of his pocket, "I _was_ going to ask you to take this over tomorrow morning - but since you're going over there tonight…"

"I should give up farming and become the postman," Fred tucked the letter into his pocket, turning back towards his buggy. "G'night, Gil. See you bright and early."

"'Night." The farewell was a distracted one, as Gilbert sat down on the porch swing, took a deep breath, slit open the envelope, and began to read.

* * *

The evening at Green Gables had progressed in a slightly more feminine manner. Phil had come to stay the night, while Jo tended to the twins at the boarding house in town. Fred had dropped Diana off around twilight, and the three had turned the Green Gables parlor into a warm, bright room, filled with laughter and merriment. Davy had given then door a queer look as he passed by, hearing the latest gale of laughter, only slightly muffled by the door, before Marilla shooed him to bed.

Inside the parlor, the three women sat, a tray with tea and various biscuits and cookies sitting on the side table. Anne and Diana were currently listening to Phil recount a tale from her early days as a minister's wife, with tears of mirth coursing down their faces.

Phil did her best to look indignant. "Well, how was I to know the woman was in mourning for her _dog_? I thought her husband had died, the way she acted and dressed! No, Anne, you really can't blame me here." She leaned back comfortably in her chair, reaching for a lemon cookie and nibbling on it. "Oh, those were the days," she sighed, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes, "the wedding, the honeymoon…" here, she and Diana shared a look that could have only been described as conspiratorial.

A look which Anne did not miss. "What exactly are you trying to hint at, in that thoroughly unsubtle manner?"

Phil turned to look at her with an expression of glee. "Your wedding night, Queen Anne." Relishing Anne's slight cough, she grinned. " _That's_ what we're referring to."

Diana chimed in with, "I had a lovely nightgown for mine - not that it ever saw much use, of course…" she trailed off, a teasing look on her face as she saw the tips of her bosom friend's ears turn slightly pink.

Twisting the knife where she saw Diana would not, Phil put a hand to her chest in realization. "Oh, but of course you have no idea what we're talking about, do you?" Her eyes gleamed wickedly, and her mouth twitched where she fought valiantly to keep a smile from bursting out.

"One does not make it to the age of twenty-eight without knowing _what_ it is you are talking about Phillipa," Anne said in her best schoolmarmish tone.

Phil looked at her with frank curiosity. "What, exactly, _do_ you know?"

Anne rolled her eyes. "Well, just this morning, I sat through Mrs. Lynde's "wedding night" speech."

"I never sat through that particular speech, but knowing Mrs. Lynde, Anne," Phil rolled _her_ eyes as well, "I would recommend forgetting everything she told you."

"I _did_ sit through it," Diana shuddered. "And it was possibly the worst fifteen minutes of my life that I've been trying to forget ever since."

Phil nearly snorted into her tea before shaking herself. "Before we move onto pleasanter matters, Anne, is there anything you'd like to ask us?" It suddenly struck her that Anne looked very young, curled up in her armchair, her hair loose and cheeks flushed.

Anne raised an eyebrow. "Instead of asking any questions, I'm simply going to ask if you have any advice." She let her gaze travel between the two of them.

"Well, honey," Phil drawled, "don't worry. Too many brides spend the entire day terrified of what's to come - likely because the "lie back and think of England" speech they received has caused them unnecessary terror - and have a simply awful time of it later on. My piece of advice is not to worry too much. And not to fall asleep," she added as an afterthought.

Diana stared at her. "You fell asleep?" she choked back a laugh at Phil's abashed grin before turning to Anne with all a motherly look on her face. "Anne," she said seriously, "I want you to trust Gil. You've known him for seventeen years, since he pulled your braids in the schoolhouse - and that one day aside, you know he would never do anything to hurt you. My piece of advice it to trust your husband. He loves you."

Phil sighed. "Nicely put," she said. "Now," she clapped her hands, "I just arrived this afternoon, and I have no idea what you'll be wearing tomorrow, Anne. Put me out of my misery, will you?"

"It's white and has lace," Anne answered succinctly.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Diana sighed, "It was originally storebought, but Gilbert walked in on us during a fitting, and it's unlucky for the groom to see the dress before the wedding, so we had to make it over _completely_ ," here she began to give a list of all the ways in which the dress had been altered to make it unrecognizable.

"Does it have puffed sleeves?" Phil's eyes twinkled, remembering Anne's love of them.

Anne laughed. "Of course! I wouldn't have it otherwise. I have to admit, I do rather like it in its new incarnation."

 _"Your wedding dress is a dream, anyhow," sighed Diana rapturously. "You'll look like a perfect queen in it—you're so tall and slender. How DO you keep so slim, Anne? I'm fatter than ever—I'll soon have no waist at all."*_

"You will always be beautiful, Diana," Anne informed her serenely, "far more beautiful than I, anyway; I've come to terms with my hair, but I will always envy you your raven black hair and dimples."

" _You are going to wear a veil, aren't you?"*_ asked Phil, steering the conversation back into fashionable waters.

" _Yes, indeedy. I shouldn't feel like a bride without one*_ \- oh, there's a knock at the door, Diana. It's bound to be Fred, come to ferry you back to hearth and home."

* * *

On the porch at Windy Orchard, Gilbert Blythe slowly sat down on the porch swing before slipping a finger under the flap of the envelope and, and pulled out a sheet of cream-colored paper covered in Anne's handwriting.

 _Dear Gil,_

 _I've been thinking, you know...about a girl and a boy, seventeen years ago in the Avonlea schoolhouse. We had such a terrible start, with your 'carrots' and my slate; and yet here we are, marrying on the morrow._

 _So many things have happened in these last years, Gilbert, and I have to wonder what sort of amazing coincidence (Providence, if we were to ask Mrs. Lynde) saw to it that we found each other again._

 _And another thing, Gilbert - do you remember that day at the beach in August, the one where we took Joy and a picnic basket down the cliffs, and I came home with the most terrific sunburn? The sunburn has since faded, thank goodness - I should hate to have a sunburn on my wedding day (although - you_ would _still marry me if I came down the aisle sporting the worst sunburn known to man, wouldn't you?_ After _giving me a prescription for some ointment, if I know you) But sunburn aside, you said something to me that day - about regretting our eight years of estrangement - and I've been mulling it over ever since._

 _Your exact words were, "We will never know what might have happened." On the contrary, darling: I can tell you one thing that would have happened. We wouldn't have Joy. And it occurs to me now (as I knew in my heart then) that if given the chance to make up these last eight years, I wouldn't take it. Because I would be robbing both you and me of the joy that comes with Joy._

 _There would have been other children - and there_ _will_ _be other children - but I wouldn't exchange Joy for any of them. Nor would I exchange you for Royal Garder or Owen Ford (good heavens, Gilbert, how could you have ever thought that? Tall, dark and handsome men with dreamy eyes are all very well and good, but they have one rather large failing: they aren't_ _you_ _.)_

 _With that, I'll bid you goodnight, and I'll see you tomorrow, shortly after noon (it's fashionable for the bride to be late, Phil tells me). I'll be the one in the white dress walking down the aisle toward you._

 _Love today, tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that,_

 _Anne_

 _(Oh, very well…"Carrots".)_

Gilbert smiled, then went inside, where he tucked the letter into the pocket of the vest he would wear the next day. Looking out of the window of his boyhood room, he could see the faintest of lights coming from the East gable at Green Gables. Thinking back to the thirteen year old boy who had stared at that light many times over the years, he grinned. That boy had to be dancing a jig right now. As to the eleven-year-old girl of his dreams? Gilbert chuckled. He had a feeling she would have been less pleased about the proceedings.

* * *

Had Gilbert followed the light from Green Gables, he would indeed have found it to be coming from Anne's room. She was curled up on her bed, toying with the letter Fred had handed her when he had come round to fetch Diana. He had told her that Gilbert had meant for her to read it the next day, but that he had said she could read it tonight.

Hence her quandary: did she read the letter now, or wait for tomorrow morning? She stared at the envelope, with her name scrawled across the flap in Gilbert's doctor's hand. How did it come, she wondered, that doctors were unable to write neatly? She brushed away the thought - the schoolmarm was having one last laugh, it seemed. Deciding that the letter would be best read now, instead of wondered over all night, she opened the envelope, pulling out Gilbert's letter. Turning her bedside lamp lower, she rolled onto her side and held the letter so that just enough light spilled across it.

 _Dear Anne,_

 _My father wrote to my mother before their wedding, and I thought I might do the same for you. I don't have your way with words - most of my writing these past years has been limited to casebooks and prescriptions - but I'm going to give this a try. Forgive me if it all ends up sounding rather unpoetic._

 _While wracking my brain for subject matter appropriate for this letter, it occured to me that you don't know the story behind your ring. It starts out as an amusing anecdote - I forgot a rather crucial part of my proposal: the ring. I know, Anne...I very nearly asked you to marry me without a ring handy. To this day, I wonder what on earth caused me to forget one._

 _But my father, having heard from either Joy or my mother (whoever was louder or found him first) came out with the pearl that you now have. At first, I intended it to be a stand-in, to be replaced at the first opportunity, but the pearl looked so beautiful on your finger, and I remembered you didn't like diamonds, so I decided to keep the pearl._

 _After that slightly embarrassing and not at all romantic confession, the story takes a bit of a turn. Once upon a time, as you say, my father was in love with a woman who is not my mother. When she turned down his proposal, he put away his ring, and used another one when he proposed to my mother some years later. He told me that he hoped the ring would bring me better luck._

 _You and I both know that the girl John Blythe was in love with was Marilla, Anne. So I suppose that, in a roundabout sort of way, I asked you to marry me with a ring that was originally intended for the woman who raised you. Somewhere, I think the gods are laughing - as you say, we've never done anything conventionally._

 _But one thing I can promise you (after all my love) is this: the ring that will be on your finger soon will never have been intended for anyone but you._

 _I'll see you soon (in that fetching dress you were wearing during that fitting I unfortunately interrupted)_

 _Love,  
Gilbert_

Anne chuckled, placing the letter and envelope on her bedside table. This letter was pure Gilbert, and she had restrain herself from taking a moonlit stroll to Windy Orchard to tell him exactly what she thought of it. Time enough for that tomorrow.

Turning back towards the table, she blew out the light, and was soon asleep.

* * *

 _Anne wakened on the morning of her wedding day to find the sunshine winking in at the window of the little porch gable and a September breeze frolicking with her curtains.*_ She also wakened to the sight of Phillipa Gordon sitting in the rocking chair by the window, nursing both her twins. At Anne's mumble of a good-morning, she looked up, her crooked smile spreading over her features.

"Oh, good, you're awake! I thought I might have to let one of these young men scream," she informed her. "Jo brought them over in the wee sma's - they were hungry and he didn't know what to do with them, the poor dears." Seeing that the previously starved babies were now full and once again asleep, she stood. "I'm going to go hand them over to Dora - the girl's a wonder with babies - and we'll start getting you ready."

Anne swung her legs off the bed. "Breakfast?"

"I think they were going to send you a tray," Phil opened the door, only to find Dora standing there with the promised tray. "Oh, wonderful! Thank you, dear - I'll trade you the babies for the breakfast."

 _Green Gables was a busy and joyous house that forenoon. Diana arrived early, with little Fred, Small Anne Cordelia and little Jack, to lend a hand. Davy and Dora whisked the babies off to the garden.*_

Looking out the East Gable window, Phil shook her head. "The twins are looking after five babies now! If any more arrive, we'll be veritably overrun. I'm rather glad I left my older boys with my mother this time." She turned back to Anne and Diana, who had just gotten Anne into her underthings. "All right - let's see that dress, Queen Anne!"

The dress was indeed lovely - puffed sleeves and all. It hadn't suffered too much during its remaking, and Anne privately thought that it looked better now than when it had originally been bought. Finally, once she had been buttoned into her gown, Diana and Phil stood back, admiring their handiwork.

A knock sounded on the door, and Mrs. Rachel poked her head in. "I'm here to see the bride - oh, Anne, you look beautiful, that's what. So tall and stylish; Gilbert's going to be hard-pressed not to stare when he sees you."

A throat cleared from behind her. "Rachel, if you don't mind…"

Mrs. Lynde disappeared, and Marilla entered, carrying a froth of white lace. Slowly, the other occupants of the room slipped out, leaving only Anne and Marilla standing in the East Gable.

Marilla cleared her throat. "Matthew would want to be here, I think."

"I went to visit him yesterday," Anne said softly. "I told him about everything. He would be pleased."

"He knew all along that Gilbert was mad for you," Marilla chuckled, shaking out the veil before pinning it to Anne's hair and stepping back. "There. _The first bride of Green Gables_. _There's never been a wedding in this house, you know. When I was a child I heard an old minister say that a house was not a real home until it had been consecrated by a birth, a wedding and a death. We've had deaths here—my father and mother died here as well as Matthew; and we've even had a birth here. Long ago, just after we moved into this house, we had a married hired man for a little while, and his wife had a baby here. But there's never been a wedding before.*_ "

"Even without a wedding, Green Gable's always been home to me," said Anne, tears welling up in her grey eyes as she looked around her little room for the last time. After today, it would be Dora's.

"There, now - won't do to cry on your wedding day," Marilla patted her on the cheek before opening the door. "It's a happy day, after all."

* * *

 _And it was a happy and beautiful bride who came down the old, homespun-carpeted stairs that September noon—the first bride of Green Gables, slender and shining-eyed, in the mist of her maiden veil, with her arms full of roses. Gilbert, waiting for her in the hall below, looked up at her with adoring eyes. She was his at last, this evasive, long-sought Anne, won after years of patient waiting. If he failed her—if he could not measure up to her standard of manhood—then, as she held out her hand, their eyes met and all doubt was swept away in a glad certainty. They belonged to each other; and, no matter what life might hold for them, it could never alter that. Their happiness was in each other's keeping and both were unafraid._

 _They were married in the sunshine of the old orchard, circled by the loving and kindly faces of long-familiar friends. Mr. Allan married them, and the Reverend Jo made what Mrs. Rachel Lynde afterwards pronounced to be the "most beautiful wedding prayer" she had ever heard. Birds do not often sing in September, but one sang sweetly from some hidden bough while Gilbert and Anne repeated their deathless vows. Anne heard it and thrilled to it; Gilbert heard it, and wondered only that all the birds in the world had not burst into jubilant song;_ Joy heard it, from her vantage point next to her beloved Miss Shirley - now Mama. _The bird sang until the ceremony was ended and then it wound up with one mad little, glad little trill. Never had the old gray-green house among its enfolding orchards known a blither, merrier afternoon. All the old jests and quips that must have done duty at weddings since Eden were served up, and seemed as new and brilliant and mirth-provoking as if they had never been uttered before. Laughter and joy had their way; and when Anne and Gilbert left to catch the Carmody train, the twins and Joy were ready with rice and old shoes, in the throwing of which Charlotta the Fourth and Mr. Harrison bore a valiant part. Marilla stood at the gate and watched the carriage out of sight down the long lane with its banks of goldenrod. Anne turned at its end to wave her last good-bye. She was gone—Green Gables was her home no more; Marilla's face looked very gray and old as she turned to the house which Anne had filled for years, and even in her absence, with light and life.*_

The elder Blythes, with Joy between them, also stood by the gate, watching the buggy disappear around them bend. Joy clasped her two books to her chest, which now bore a slightly different inscription on their covers. Sometime during that gay afternoon, she had handed them to Anne, along with a pen, and the signature inside had been changed from "Miss A. Shirley" to "Mama". As she turned toward Windy Orchard with her grandparents," Joy looked back. She would miss her Papa and new Mama, but her grandmother had explained that she would be staying with her for a few weeks before going back to Glen St. Mary to live with them. And she would be so glad to see them when she did.

 _The night winds were beginning their wild dances beyond the bar and the fishing hamlet across the harbor was gemmed with lights as Anne and Gilbert drove up the lane to Ingleside. The door of the little house opened, and a warm glow of firelight flickered out into the dusk. Gilbert lifted Anne from the buggy and led her into the garden, through the little gate between the ruddy-tipped firs, up the trim, red path to the sandstone step._

 _"Welcome home," he whispered, and hand in hand they stepped over the threshold.*_

* * *

 _*Anne's House of Dreams_

 _Well, here follows what MrsvonTrapp calls the 'Oscars acceptance speech'. I am so very grateful to everyone who's followed, favorited, or reviewed this story, which originally began as a little "what if" during the middle of the might last year. Thank you to those who have been here since the beginning: **Kim Blythe, MrsvonTrapp** , **caprubia, elizasky, oz diva, kslchen** (for the many, many PMs involving ironing out plot points, torturing characters, and getting out grease stains); and those of who came a bit later: **OriginalMcFishie, Excel Aunt, NotMrsRachelLynde, NovemberRainbow,** and **FishingForLakeTrout.** You are all Anne-girls to the core._

 _This story, I am sorry to say, is now completed. I may come back with a sequel or a couple of one-shots, but I'm going to let this AU rest for a while._

 _I'll be back soon, though (next week-ish, maybe) with a couple of new long stories - promise! I've found a wonderful community here, and I'm pretty sure I'm here to stay._

 _Love,_

 _Anne_


End file.
